WM.  D.  O'CONNOR. 


WITH   TWO    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY  THOS.    NAST. 


NEW   YORK  : 

G.  P.  PUTNAM  &  SON,  66 1  BROADWAY. 

LONDON  :    SAMPSON    LOW    &    CO. 
1867. 


A  CHRISTMAS  STORY. 


T  the  West  End  of  Boston 
is  a  quarter  of  some  fifty 
streets,  more  or  less,  common 
ly  known  as  Beacon  Hill! 

It  is  a  rich  and  respectable 
quarter,  sacred  to  the  abodes  of  Our  First 
Citizens.  The  very  houses  have  become  sen 
tient  of  its  prevailing  character  of  riches  and 
respectability  ;  and,  when  the  twilight  deep 
ens  on  the  place,  or  at  high  noon,  if  your 
vision  is  gifted,  you  may  see  them  as  long 
rows  of  Our  First  Giants,  with  very  corpulent 
or  very  broad  fronts,  with  solid-set  feet  of 
sidewalk  ending  in  square-toed  curbstone, 
with  an  air  about  them  as  if  they  had  thrust 
their  hard  hands  into  their  wealthy  pockets 
forever,  with  a  character  of  arctic  reserve, 
and  portly  dignity,  and  a  well-dressed,  full- 


6  THE  GHOST. 

fed,  self-satisfied,  opulent,  stony,  repellant 
aspect  to  each,  which  says  plainly  :  "I  be 
long  to  a  rich  family,  of  the  very  highest 
respectability." 

History,  having  much  to  say  of  Beacon 
Hill  generally,  has,  on  the  present  occasion, 
something  to  say  particularly  of  a  certain 
street  which  bends  over  the  eminence, 
sloping  steeply  down  to  its  base.  It  is  an 
old  street — quaint,  quiet,  and  somewhat 
picturesque.  It  was  young  once,  though — 
having  been  born  before  the  Revolution, 
and  was  then  given  to  the  city  by  its  father, 
Mr.  Middlecott,  who  died  without  heirs,  and 
did  this  much  for  posterity.  Posterity  has 
not  been  grateful  to  Mr.  Middlecott.  The 
street  bore  his  name  till  he  was  dust,  and 
then  got  the  more  aristocratic  epithet  of 
Bowdoin.  Posterity  has  paid  him  by 
effacing  what  would  have  been  his  noblest 
epitaph.  We  may  expect,  after  this,  to  see 
Faneuil  Hall  robbed  of  its  name,  and  called 
Smith  Hall!  Republics  are  proverbially 
ungrateful.  What  safer  claim  to  public 
remembrance  has  the  old  Huguenot,  Peter 
Faneuil,  than  the  old  Englishman,  Mr. 
Middlecott  ?  Ghosts,  it  is  said,  have  risen 
from  the  grave  to  reveal  wrongs  done  them 


THE  GHOST.  7 

by  the  living ;  but  it  needs  no  ghost  from  the 
grave  to  prove  the  proverb  about  republics. 
Bowdoin  street  only  differs  from  its 
kindred,  in  a  certain  shady,  grave,  old-fogy, 
fossil  aspect,  just  touched  with  a  pensive 
solemnity,  as  if  it  thought  to  itself,  "  I  'm  get 
ting  old  but  I  'm  highly  respectable ;  that 's 
a  comfort."  It  has,  moreover,  a  dejected, 
injured  air,  as  if  it  brooded  solemnly  on  the 
wrong  done  to  it  by  taking  away  its  original 
name,  and  calling  it  Bowdoin ;  but  as  if, 
being  a  very  conservative  street,  it  was 
resolved  to  keep  a  cautious  silence  on  the 
subject,  lest  the  Union  should  go  to  pieces. 
Sometimes  it  wears  a  profound  and  mysteri 
ous  look,  as  if  it  could  tell  something  if  it 
had  a  mind  to,  but  thought  it  best  not. 
Something  of  the  ghost  of  its  father — it  was 
the  only  child  he  ever  had  ! — walking  there 
all  the  night,  pausing  at  the  corners  to  look 
up  at  the  signs,  which  bear  a  strange  name, 
and  wringing  his  ghostly  hands  in  lam 
entation  at  the  wrong  done  his  memory ! 
Rumor  told  it  in  a  whisper,  many  years  ago. 
Perhaps  it  was  believed  by  a  few  of  the 
oldest  inhabitants  of  the  city ;  but  the 
highly  respectable  quarter  never  heard  of  it ; 
and,  if  it  had,  would  not  have  been  bribed 


8  THE  GHOST. 

to  believe  it,  by  any  sum.  Some  one  had 
said  that  some  very  old  person  had  seen  a 
phantom  there.  Nobody  knew  who  some 
one  was.  Nobody  knew  who  the  very  old 
person  was.  Nobody  knew  who.  had  seen 
it ;  nor  when  ;  nor  how.  The  very  rumor 
was  spectral. 

All  this  was  many  years  ago.  Since  then 
it  has  been  reported  that  a  ghost  was  seen 
there  one  bitter  Christmas  eve,  two  or  three 
years  back.  The  twilight  was  already  in 
the  street ;  but  the  evening  lamps  were  not 
yet  lighted  in  the  windows,  and  the  roofs 
and  chimney-tops  were  still  distinct  in  the 
last  clear  light  of  the  dropping  day.  It  was 
light  enough,  however,  for  one  to  read, 
easily,  from  the  opposite  sidewalk,  "  Dr.  C. 
Renton,"  in  black  letters,  on  the  silver  plate 
of  a  door,  not  far  from  the  gothic  portal  of 
the  Swedenborgian  church.  Near  this  door 
stood  a  misty  figure,  whose  sad,  spectral 
eyes  floated  on  vacancy,  and  whose  long, 
shadowy  white  hair,  lifted  like  an  airy  weft 
in  the  streaming  wind.  That  was  the  ghost ! 
It.  stood  near  the  door  a  long  time,  without 
any  other  than  a  shuddering  motion,  as 
though  it  felt  the  searching  blast,  which 
swept  furiously  from  the  north  up  the 


THE  GHOST.  9 

declivity  of  the  street,  rattling  the  shutters 
in  its  headlong  passage.  Once  or  twice, 
when  a  passer-by,  muffled  warmly  from,  the 
bitter  air,  hurried  past,  the  phantom  shrank 
closer  to  the  wall,  till  he  was  gone.  Its 
vague,  mournful  face  seemed  to  watch  for 
some  one.  The  twilight  darkened,  gradu 
ally  ;  but.it  did  not  flit  away.  Patiently  it 
kept  its  piteous  look  fixed  in  one  direction — 
watching — watching  ;  and,  while  the  howl 
ing  wind  swept  frantically  through  the  chill 
air,  it  still  seemed  to  shudder  in  the  piercing 
cold. 

A  light  suddenly  kindled  in  an  opposite 
window.  As  if  touched  by  a  gleam  from 
the  lamp,  or  as  if  by  some  subtle  interior 
illumination,  the  spectre  became  faintly 
luminous,  and  a  thin  smile  seemed  to  quiver 
over  its  features.  At  the  same  moment,  a 
strong,  energetic  figure — Dr.  Renton,  him 
self — came  in  sight,  striding  down  the  slope 
of  the  pavement  to  his  own  door,  his  over 
coat  thrown  back,  as  if  the  icy  air  were  a 
tropical  warmth  to  him,  his  hat  set  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  and  the  loose  ends  of 
a  'kerchief  about  his  throat,  streaming  in 
the  nor' wester.  The  wind  set  up  a  howl 
the  moment  he  came  in  sight,  and  swept 


10  THE  GHOST. 

upon  him;  and  a  curious  agitation  began 
on  the  part  of  the  phantom.  It  glided 
rapidly  to  and  fro,  and  moved  in  circles, 
and  then,  with  the  same  swift,  silent  mo 
tion,  sailed  toward  him,  as  if  blown  thither 
by  the  gale.  Its  long,  thin  arms,  with 
something  like  a  pale  flame  spiring  from  the 
tips  of  the  slender  fingers,  were  stretched 
out,  as  in  greeting,  while  the  wan  smile 
played  over  its  face ;  and  when  he  rushed 
by,  unheedingly,  it  made  a  futile  effort  to 
grasp  the  swinging  arms  with  which  he  ap 
peared  to  buffet  back  the  buffeting  gale. 
Then  it  glided  on  by  his  side,  looking 
earnestly  into  his  countenance,  and  moving 
its  pallid  lips  with  agonized  rapidity,  as 
if  it  said:  "Look  at  me — speak  to  me — 
speak  to  me — see  me !  "  But  he  kept  his 
course  with  unconscious  eyes,  and  a  vexed 
frown  on  his  bold,  white  forehead,  betoken 
ing  an  irritated  mind.  The  light  that  had 
shone  in  the  figure  of  the  phantom,  dark 
ened  slowly,  till  the  form  was  only  a  pale 
shadow.  The  wind  had  suddenly  lulled, 
and  no  longer  lifted  its  white  hair.  It  still 
glided  on  with  him,  its  head  drooping  on 
its  breast,  and  its  long  arms  hanging  by  its 
side ;  but  when  he  reached  the  door,  it  sud- 


THE  GHOST.  11 

denly  sprang  before  him,  gazing  fixedly 
into  his  eyes,  while  a  convulsive  motion 
flashed  over  its  grief-worn  features,  as  if  it 
had  shrieked  out  a  word.  He  had  his  foot 
on  the  step  at  the  moment.  "With  a  start, 
he  put  his  gloved  hand  to  his  forehead, 
while  the  vexed  look  went  out  quickly  on 
his  face.  The  ghost  watched  him  breath 
lessly.  But  the  irritated  expression  came 
back  to  his  countenance  more  resolutely 
than  before,  and  he  began  to  fumble  in  his 
pocket  for  a  latch-key,  muttering  petulantly, 
"  What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  me 
now !  "  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  voice  had 
cried,  clearly,  yet  as  from  afar,  "  Charles 
Renton ! " — his  own  name.  He  had  heard 
it  in  his  startled  mind  ;  but,  then,  he  knew 
he  was  in  a  highly  wrought  state  of  nervous 
excitement,  and  his  medical  science,  with 
that  knowledge  for  a  basis,  could  have 
reared  a  formidable  fortress '  of  explanation 
against  any  phenomenon,  were  it  even 
more  wonderful  than  this. 

He  entered  the  house-;  kicked  the  door 
to ;  pulled  off  his  overcoat ;  wrenched  off 
his  outer -'kerchief;  slammed  them  on  a 
branch  of  the  clothes-tree ;  banged  his  hat 
on  top  of  them ;  wheeled  about ;  pushed  in 


12  THE  GHOST. 

the  door  of  his  library ;  strode  in,  and,  leav 
ing  the  door  ajar,  threw  himself  into  an 
easy  chair,  and  sat  there  in  the  fire-reddened 
dusk,  with  his  white  brows  knit,  and  his 
arms  tightly  locked  on  his  breast.  The 
ghost  had  followed  him,  sadly,  and  now 
stood  motionless  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
its  spectral  hands  crossed  on  its  bosom,  and 
its  white  locks  drooping  down. 

It  was  evident  Dr.  Renton  was  in  a 
bad  humor.  The  very  library  caught  con 
tagion  from  him,  and  became  grouty  and 
sombre.  The  furniture  was  grim,  and  sul 
len,  and  sulky;  it  made  ugly  shadows  on 
the  carpet  and  on  the  wall,  in  allopathic 
quantity ;  it  took  the  red  gleams  from  the 
fire  on  its  polished  surfaces,  in  homoeopathic 
globules,  and  got  no  good  from  them.  The 
fire  itself  peered  out  sulkily  from  the  black 
bars  of  the  grate,  and  seemed  resolved  not 
to  burn  the  fresh  deposit  of  black  coals  at 
the  top,  but  to  take  this  as  a  good  time  to 
remember  that  those  coals  had  been  bought 
in  the  summer  at  five  dollars  a  ton — imder 
price,  mind  you — when  poor  people,  who 
cannot  buy  at  advantage,  but  must  get  their 
firing  in  the  winter,  would  then  have  given 
nine  or  ten  dollars  for  them.  And  so  (glowered 


THE  GHOST.  13 

the  fire),  I  am  determined  to  think  of  that 
outrage,  and  not  to  light  them,  but  to  go 
out  myself,  directly !  And  the  fire  got  into 
such  a  spasm  of  glowing  indignation  over 
the  injury,  that  it  lit  a  whole  tier  of  black 
coals  with  a  series  of  little  explosions,  be 
fore  it  could  cool  down,  and  sent  a  crimson 
gleam  over  the  moody  figure  of  its  owner  in 
the  easy  chair,  and  over  the  solemn  furni 
ture,  and  into  the  shadowy  corner  filled  by 
the  ghost. 

The  spectre  did  not  move  when  Dr.  Ren- 
ton  arose  and  lit  the  chandelier.  It  stood 
there,  still  and  gray,  in  the  flood  of  mejlow 
light.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  and  the 
twilight  without  had  deepened  into  darkness. 
The  fire  was  now  burning  in  despite  of  itself, 
fanned  by  the  wintry  gusts,  which  found 
their  way  down  the  chimney.  Dr.  Renton 
stood  with  his  back  to  it,  his  hands  behind 
him,  his  bold  white  forehead  shaded  by  a 
careless  lock  of  black  hair,  and  knit  sternly ; 
and  the  same  frown  in  his  handsome,  open, 
searching  dark  eyes.  Tall  and  strong, 
wi|h  an  erect  port,  and  broad,  firm  shoul 
ders,  high,  resolute  features,  a  command 
ing  figure  garbed  in  aristocratic  black,  and 
not  yet  verging  into  the  proportions  of 


14  THE  GHOST. 

obesity — take  him  for  all  in  all,  a  very  fine 
and  favorable  specimen  of  the  solid  men  of 
Boston.  And  seen  in  contrast  (oh  !  could  he 
but  have  known  it!)  with  the  attenuated 
figure  of  the  poor,  dim  ghost ! 

Hark  !  a  very  light  foot  on  the  stairs — a 
rich  rustle  of  silks.  Everything  still  again 
— Dr.  Kenton  looking  fixedly,  with  great 
sternness,  at  the  half-open  door,  from  whence 
a  faint,  delicious  perfume  floats  into  the 
library.  Somebody  there,  for  certain. 
Somebody  peeping  in  with  very  bright, 
arch  eyes.  Dr.  Renton  knew  it,  and  pre 
pared  to  maintain  his  ill-humor  against  the 
invader.  His  face  became  triply  armed 
with  severity  for  the  encounter.  That's 
Netty,  I  know,  he  thought.  His  daughter. 
So  it  was.  In  she  bounded.  Bright  little 
Netty!  Gay  little  Netty!  A  dear  and 
sweet  little  creature,  to  be  sure,  with  a  deli 
cate  and  pleasant  beauty  efface  and  figure,  it 
needed  no  costly  silks  to  grace  or  heighten. 
There  she  stood.  Not  a  word  from  her 
merry  lips,  but  a  smile  which  stole  over  all 
the  solitary  grimness  of  the  library,  and 
made  everything  better,  and  brighter,  and 
fairer,  in  a  minute.  It  floated  down  into 
the  cavernous  humor  of  Dr.  Renton,  and 


THE  GHOST.  15 

the  gloom  began  to  lighten  directly — though 
he  wo  aid  not  own  it,  nor  relax  a  single 
feature.  But  the  wan  ghost  in  the  corner 
lifted  its  head  to  look  at  her,  and  slowly 
brightened  as  to  something  worthy  a  spirit's 
love,  and  a  dim  phantom's  smiles.  Now 
then,  Dr.  Renton  !  the  lines  are  drawn,  and 
the  foe  is  coming.  Be  martial,  sir,'as  when 
you  stand  in  the  ranks  of  the  cadets  on 
training-days !  Steady,  and  stand  the 
charge !  So  he  did.  He  kept  an  inflexible 
front  as  she  glided  toward  him,  softly, 
slowly,  with  her  bright  eyes  smiling  into 
his,  and  doing  dreadful  execution.  Then 
she  put  her  white  arms  around  his  neck, 
laid  her  dear,  fair  head  on  his  breast,  and 
peered  up  archly  into  his  stern  visage. 
Spite  of  himself,  he  could  not  keep  the 
fixed  lines  on  his  face  from  breaking  con 
fusedly  into  a  faint  smile.  Somehow  or 
other,  his  hands  came  from  behind  him,  and 
rested  on  her  head.  There!  That's  all. 
Dr.  Renton  surrendered  at  discretion  !  One 
of  the  solid  men  of  Boston  was  taken  after 
a  desperate  struggle — internal,  of  course — 
for  he  kissed  her,  and  said,  "Dear  little 
Netty !  "  And  so  she  was. 

The  phantom  watched  her  with  a  smile, 


16  THE  GHOST. 

and  wavered  and  brightened 'as  if  about  to 
glide  to  her;  but  it  grew  still,  and  re 
mained. 

"  Pa  in  the  sulks  to-night  ? "  she  asked, 
in  the  most  winning,  playful,  silvery  voice. 

"  Pa 's  a  fool,"  he  answered  in  his  deep 
chest- tones,  with  a  vexed  good  humor ; 
"  and  you  know  it." 

"What's  the  matter  with  pa?  What 
makes  him  be  a  great  bear?  Papa-sy, 
dear,"  she  continued,  stroking  his  face  with 
her  little  hands,  and  patting  him,  very 
much  as  Beauty  might  have  patted  the 
Beast  after  she  fell  in  love  with  him — or, 
as  if  he  were  a  great  baby.  In  fact,  he 
began  to  look  then  as  if  he  were. 

"  Matter  ?  Oh !  everything 's  the  matter, 
little  Netty.  The  world  goes  round  too 
fast.  My  boots  pinch.  Somebody  stole  my 
umbrella  last  year.  And  I've  got  a  head 
ache."  He  concluded  this  fanciful  abstract 
of  his  grievances  by  putting  his  arms  around 
her,  and  kissing  her  again.  Then  he  sat 
down  in  the  easy-chair,  and  took  her  fondly 
on  his  knee. 

"  Pa  's  got  a  headache !  It  is  t-o-o  bad, 
BO  it  is,"  she  continued  in  the  same  sooth 
ing,  winning  way,  caressing  his  bold,  white 


THE  GHOST.  17 

brow  with  her  tiny  hands.  "  It 's  a  horrid 
shame,  so  it  is  !  'P-o-o-r  pa.  Where  does 
it  ache,  papa-sy,  dear?  In  the  forehead? 
Cerebrum  or  cerebellum,  papa-sy  ?  Occiput 
or  sinciput,  deary  ?  " 

"  Bah !  you  little  quiz,"  he  replied, 
laughing  and  pinching  her  cheek,  "none 
of  your  nonsense!  And  what  are  you 
dressed  up  in  this  way  for,  to-night  ?  Silks, 
and  laces,  and  essences,  and  what  not! 
"Where  are  you  going,  fairy  ? " 

"  Going  out  with  mother  for  the  evening, 
Dr.  Renton,"  she  replied  briskly  ;  "  Mrs. 
Larrabee's  party,  papa-sy.  Christmas  "eve, 
you  know.  And  what  are  you  going 
to  give  me  for  a  present,  to-morrow,  pa- 
sy?" 

"  To-morrow  will  tell,  little  Netty." 

"  Good !  And  what  are  you  going  to 
give  me,  so  that  I  can  make  my  presents, 
Beary  ? " 

"  Ugh ! "  but  he  growled  it  in  fun,  and 
had  a  pocket-book  out  from  his  breast 
pocket  directly  after.  Fives — tens — twen 
ties — fifties — all  crisp,  and  nice,  and  new 
bank-notes. 

"Will  that  be  enough,  Netty?"  He 
held  up  a  twenty.  The  smiling  face 
2 


18  THE  GHOST. 

nodded  assent,  and  the  bright  eyes  twin 
kled. 

"No,  it  won't.  But  that  will,"  he  con 
tinued,  giving  her  a  fifty. 

"Fifty  dollars,  Globe  Bank,  Boston!" 
exclaimed  Netty,  making  great  eyes  at  him. 
"  But  we  must  take  all  we  can  get,  pa-sy ; 
mustn't  we  ?  It 's  too  much,  though.  Thank 
you  all  the  same,  pa-sy,  nevertheless."  And 
she  kissed  him,  and  put  the  bill  in  a  little 
bit  of  a  portemonnaie  with  a  gay  laugh. 

"  Well  done,  I  declare ! "  he  said,  smil 
ingly.  "  But  you  're  going  to  the  party  ? " 

"  Pretty  soon,  pa." 

He  made  no  answer ;  but  sat  smiling  at 
her.  The  phantom  watched  them,  silently. 

""What  made  pa  so  cross  and  grim,  to 
night  ?  Tell  Netty— do,"  she  pleaded. 

"  Oh !  because ; — everything  went  wrong 
•  with  me,  to-day.  There."  And  he  looked 
as  sulky,  at  that  moment,  as  he  ever  did  in 
his  life. 

"  No,  no,  pa-sy ;  that  won't  do.  I  want 
the  particulars,"  continued  Netty,  shaking 
her  head,  smilingly. 

"  Particulars  !  Well,  then,  Miss  Nathalie 
Eenton,"  he  began,  with  mock  gravity, 
"  your  professional  father  is  losing  some  of 


THE  GHOST.  19 

his  oldest  patients.  Everybody  is  in  ruin 
ous  good  health  ;  and  the  grass  is  growing 
in  the  graveyards." 

"  In  the  winter-time,  papa  ? — smart  grass !  " 
"  ISTot  that  I  want  practice,"  he  went  on,. 
getting  into  soliloquy ;  "  or  patients,  either. 
A  rich  man  who  took  to  the  profession  sim 
ply  for  the  love  of  it,  can't  complain  on  that 
score.  But  to.  have  an  interloping,  she-doctor 
take  a  family  I've  attended  ten  years,  out 
of  my  hands,  and  to  hear  the  hodge-podge 
gabble  about  physiological  laws,  and  wo 
man's  rights,  and  no  taxation  without 

o  /     ^M 

representation,  .they  learn  from  her — well, 
it's  too  bad!" 

"  Is  that  all,  pa-sy  ?  Seems  to  me,  /  'd 
like  to  vote,  too,"  was  Netty's  piquant 
rejoinder. 

"  Hoh !  I'll  warrant,"  growled  her  fether. 
"  Hope  you  '11  vote  the  Whig  ticket,  Netty, 
when  you  get  your  rights." 

"  Will  the  Union  be  dissolved,  then,  pa- 
sy — when  the  Whigs  are  beaten  ?  "' 

"  Bah  !  you  little  plague,"  he  growled, 
with  a  laugh.  "But,  then,  you  women 
don't  know  anything  about  politics.  So, 
there.  As  I  was  saying,  everything  went 
wrong  with  me  to-day.  I  've  been  speculat- 


w  * 


20  TEE  GHOST. 

ing  in  railroad  st6ck,  and  singed  my 
fingers.  Then,  old  Tom  Hollis  outbid  me, 
to-day,  at  Leonard's  on  a  rare  medical  work 
I  had  set  my  eyes  upon  having.  Confound 
him !  Then,  again,  two  of  my  houses  are 
tenantless,  and  there  are  folks  in  two  others 
that  won't  pay  their  rent,  and  I  can't  get 
them  out.  Out  they  '11  go,  though,  or  I  '11 
know  why.  And,  to  crown  all — um-m. 
And  I  wish  the  devil  had  him !  as  he 
will." 

"  Had  who,  Beary-papa  ? " 

"Him.  I'll  tell  you.  The  street  floor 
of  one  of  my  houses  in  Hanover  street  lets 
for  an  oyster-room.  They  keep  a  bar  there, 
and  sell  liquor.  Last  night  they  had  a 
grand  row — a  drunken  fight,  and  one  man 
was  stabbed,  it 's  thought  fatally." 

"O,  father!"  Netty's  bright  eyes 
dilated  with  horror. 

"  Yes.  I  hope  he  won't  die.  At  any 
rate,  there 's  likely  to  be  a  stir  about  the 
matter,  and  my  name  will  be  called  into 
question,  then,  as  I'm  the  landlord.  And 
folks  will  make  a  handle  of  it,  and  there  '11 
be  the  deuce  to  pay,  generally." 

He  got  back  the  stern,  vexed  frown,  to 
his  face,  with  the  anticipation,  and  beat  the 


THE  GHOST.  21 

carpet  with  his  foot.  The  ghost  gtill 
watched  from  the  angle  of  the  room,  and 
seemed  to  darken,  while  its  features  looked 
troubled. 

"  But,  father,"  said  Netty,  a  little  tremu 
lously,  "  I  would  n't  let  my  houses  to  such 
people.  It 's  not  right ;  is  it  ?  Why,  it  .'s 
horrid  to  think  of  men  getting  drunk,  and 
killing  each  other !  " 

Dr.  Renton  rubbed  his  hair  into  dis 
order,  with  vexation,  and  then  subsided 
into  solemnity. 

"  I  know  it 's  not  exactly  right,  Netty ; 
but  I  can't  help  it.  As  I  said  before,  I 
wish  the  devil  had  that  bar-keeper.  I 
ought  to  have  ordered  him  out  long  ago, 
and  then  this  wouldn't  have  happened. 
I  've  increased  his  rent  twice,  hoping  to  get 
rid  of  him  so ;  but  he  pays  without  a  mur 
mur  ;  and  what  am  I  to  do  ?  You  see,  he 
was  an  occupant  when  the  building  came 
into  my  hands,  and  I  let  him  stay.  He 
pays  me  a  good,  round  rent;  and,  apart 
from  his  cursed  traffic,  he  's  a  good  tenant. 
What  can  I  do?  It 's  a  good  thing  for  him, 
and  it 's  a  good  thing  for  me,  pecuniarily. 
Confound  him.  Here's  a  nice  rumpus 
brewing ! " 


22  THE  GHOST. 

".Dear  pa,  I'm  afraid  it's  not  a  good 
thing  for-  you,"  said  Netty,  caressing  him, 
and  smoothing  his  tumbled  hair.  "  Nor  for 
him  either.  I  would  n't  mind  the  rent  he 
pays  you.  I'd  order  him  out.  It's  bad 
money.  There  's  blood  on  it." 

She  had  grown  pale,  and  her  voice 
quivered.  The  phantom  glided  over  to 
them,  and  laid  its  spectral  hand  upon  her 
forehead.  The  shadowy  eyes  looked  from 
under  the  misty  hair  into  the  doctor's  face, 
and  the  pale  lips  moved  as  if  speaking  the 
words  heard  only  in  the  silence  of  his  heart 
— "  hear  her,  hear  her  !  " 

"  I  must  think  of  it,"  resumed  Dr.  Ken- 
ton,  coldly.  "  I  'm  resolved,  at  all  events, 
to  warn  him  that  if  anything  of  this  kind 
occurs  again,  he  must  quit  at  once.  I  dis 
like  to  lose  a  profitable  tenant ;  for  no  other 
business  would  bring  me  the  sum  his  does. 
Hang  it,  everybody  does  the  best  he  can 
with  his  property — why  should  n't  I  ? " 

The  ghost,  standing  near  them,  drooped 
its  head  again  on  its  breast,  and  crossed  its 
arms.  Netty  was  silent.  Dr.  Renton  con 
tinued,  petulantly : 

"  A  precious  set  of  people  I  manage  to 
get  into  my  premises.  There 's  a  woman 


THE  GHOST.  23 

hires  a  couple  of  rooms  for  a  dwelling, 
overhead,  in  that  same  building,  and  for 
three, months  I  haven't  got  a  cent  from 
her.  I  know  these  people's  tricks.  Her 
month's  notice  expires  to-morrow,  and  out 
she  goes." 

"  Poor  creature ! "  sighed  Netty. 

He  knit  his  brow,  and  beat  the  carpet 
with  his  foot,  in  vexation. 

"  Perhaps  she  can't  pay  you,  pa,"  trem 
bled  the  sweet,  silvery  voice.  "You 
would  n't  turn  her  out  in  this  cold  winter, 
when  she  can't  pay  you — would  you,  pa  ? " 

"  Why  don't  she  get  another  house,  and 
swindle  some  one  else  ? "  he  replied,  testily ; 
"  there 's  plenty  of  rooms  to  let." 

"Perhaps  she  can't  find  one, pa,"  answer 
ed  Netty. 

"  Humbug !  "  retorted  her  father ;  "  I 
know  better." 

"  Pa,  dear,,  if  I  were  you,  I  'd  turn  out 
that  rumseller,  and  let  the  poor  woman 
stay  a  little  longer  ;  just  a  little,  pa." 

"Shan't  do  it.  Hah!  that  would  be 
scattering  money  out  of  both  pockets. 
Shan't  do  it.  Out  she  shall  go ;  and  as  for 
him — well,  he'd  better  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  There,  let  us  leave  the  subject,  dar- 


24  THE  GHOST. 

ling.  It  vexes  me.  How  did  we  contrive 
to  get  into  this  train.  Bah !  " 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him,  and  kiss 
ed  her  forehead.  She  sat  quietly,  with 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  thinking  very 
gravely. 

"I  feel  queerly  to-day,  little  Netty,"  he 
began,  after  a  short  pause.  "My  nerves 
are  all  high-strung  with  the  turn  matters 
have  taken." 

"  How  is  it,  papa  ?  The  headache  ? "  she 
answered. 

"  Y-e-s — n-o — not  exactly ;  I  don't  know," 
he  said  dubiously ;  then,  in  an  absent  way, 
"  it  was  that  letter  set  me  to  think  of  him 
all  day,  I  suppose." 

"  Why,  pa,  I  declare,"  cried  Netty,  start 
ing  up,  "  if  I  did  n't  forget  all  about  it,  and 
I  came  down  expressly  to  give  it  to  you ! 
Where  is  it  ?  Oh !  here  it  is." 

She  drew  from  her  pocket  an  old  letter, 
faded  to  a  pale  yellow,  and  gave  it  to  him. 
The  ghost  started  suddenly. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul !  it 's  the  very  let 
ter  !  Where  did  you  get  that,  Nathalie  ? " 
asked  Dr.  Eenton. 

"  I  found  it  on  the  stairs  after  dinner,  pa." 

"  Yes,  I  do  remember  taking  it  up  with 


THE  GHOST.  25 

me ;  I  must  have  dropped  it,"  he  answered, 
musingly,  gazing  at  the  superscription. 
The  ghost  was  gazing  at  it,  too,  with  startled 
interest. 

"  What  beautiful  writing  it  is,  pa,"  mur 
mured  the  young  girl.  "  Who  wrote  it  to- 
you  ?  It  looks  yellow  enough  to  have  been 
written  a  long  time  since." 

"Fifteen  years  ago,  Netty.  When  you 
were  a  baby.  And  the  hand  that  wrote  it 
has  been  cold  for  all  that  time." 

He  spoke  with  a  solemn  sadness,  as  if 
memory  lingered  with  the  .heart  of  fifteen 
years  ago,  on  an  old  grave.  The  dim  figure 
by  his  side  had  bowed  its  head,  and  all  was 
still. 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  resumed,  speaking 
vacantly  and  slowly,  "  I  have  not  thought  of 
him  for  so  long  a  time,  and  to-day — especially 
this  evening— I  have  felt  as  if  he  were  con 
stantly  near  me.  It  is  a  singular  feeling." 

He  put  his  left  hand  to  his  forehead,  and 
mused — his  right  clasped  his  daughter's 
shoulder.  The  phantom  slowly  raised  its 
head,  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  look  of 
unutterable  tenderness. 

"  Who  was  he,  father  ? "  she  asked  with  a 
hushed  voice. 


26  THE  GHOST. 

"  A  young  man — an  author — a  poet.  He 
had  been  my  dearest  friend,  when  we  were 
boys ;  and,  though  I  lost  sight  of  him  for 
years— he  led  an  erratic  life — we  were 
friends  when  he  died.  Poor,  poor  fellow ! 
Well,  he  is  at  peace." 

The  stern  voice  had  saddened,  and  was 
almost  tremulous.  The  spectral  form  was 
still. 

"  How  did  he  die,  father  ? " 

"A  long  story,  darling,"  he  replied 
gravely,  "  and  a  sad  one.  He  was  very  poor 
and  proud.  He  was  a  genius — that  is,  a 
person  without  an  atom  of  practical  talent. 
His  parents  died,  the  last,  his  mother,  when 
he  was  near  manhood.  I  was  in  college 
then.  Thrown  upon  the  world,  he  picked 
up  a  scanty  subsistence  with  his  pen,  for  a 
time.  I  could  have  got  him  a  place  in  the 
counting-house,  but  he  would  not  take  it ; 
in  fact,  he  was  n't  fit  for  it.  You  can't 
harness  Pegasus  to  the  cart,  you  know. 
Besides,  he  despised  mercantile  life — without 
reason,  of  course ;  but  he  was  always 
notional.  His  love  of  literature  was  one  of 
the  rocks  he  foundered  on.  He  wasn't 
successful ;  his  best  compositions  were  too 
delicate — fanciful — to  please  the  popular 


THE  GHOST.  27 

taste  ;  and  then  he  was  full  of  the  radical 
and  fanatical  notions  which  infected  so 
many  people  at  that  time  in  New  England, 
and  infect  them  now,  for  that  matter  ;  and 
his  sublimated,  impracticable  ideas  and 
principles,  which  he  kept  till  his  dying  day, 
and  which,  I  confess,  alienated  me  from  him, 
always  staved  off  his  chances  of  success. 
Consequently,  he  never  rose  above  the 
drudgery  of  some  employment  on  news 
papers.  Then  he  was  terribly  passionate, 
not  without  cause,  I  allow  ;  but  it  was  ii't 
wise.  What  I  mean  is  this  :  if  he  saw,  or  if 
he  fancied  he  saw,  any  wrong  or  injury  done 
to  any  one,  it  was  enough  to  throw  him 
into  a  frenzy ;  he  would  get  black  in  the 
face  and  absolutely  shriek  out  his  denuncia 
tions  of  the  wrongdoer.  I  do  believe  he 
would  have  visited  his  own  brother  with 
the  most  unsparing  invective,  if  that  brother 
had  laid  a  harming  finger  on  a  street-beggar, 
or  a  colored  man,  or  a  poor  person  of  any 
kind.  I  don't  blame  the  feeling ;  though 
with  a  man  like  him,  it  was  very  apt  to  be 
a  false  or  mistaken  one ;  but,  at  any  rate, 
its  exhibition  wasn't  sensible.  Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  he  buffeted  about  in  this  world 
a  long  time,  poorly  paid,  fed,  and  clad; 


28  THE  GHOST. 

taking  more  care  of  other  people  than 
he  did  of  himself.  Then  mental  suffer 
ing,  physical  exposure,  and  want  killed 
him." 

The  stern  voice  had  grown  softer  than  a 
child's.  The  same  look  of  unutterable 
tenderness  brooded  on  the  mournful  face  of 
the  phantom  by  his  side ;  but  its  thin, 
shining  hand  was  laid  upon  his  head,  and 
its  countenance  had  undergone  a  change. 
The  form  was  still  undefined ;  but  the 
features  had  become  distinct.  They  were 
those  of  a  young  man,  beautiful  and  wan, 
and  marked  with  great  suffering. 

A  pause  had  fallen  on  the  conversation, 
in  which  the  father  and  daughter  heard  the 
solemn  sighing  of  the  wintry  wind  around 
the  dwelling.  The  silence  seemed  scarcely 
broken  by  the  voice  of  the  young  girl. 

"Dear  father,  this  was  very  sad.  Did 
you  say  he  died  of  want  ? " 

"  Of  want,  my  child,  of  hunger  and  cold. 
I  do  n't  doubt  it.  He  had  wandered  about, 
as  I  gather,  houseless  for  a  couple  of  days 
and  nights.  It  was  in  December,  too. 
Some  one  found  him,  on  a  rainy  night,  lying 
in  the  street,  drenched  and  burning  with 
fever,  and  had  him  taken  to  the  hospital. 


THE  GHOST.  29 

It  appears  that  he  had  always  cherished  a 
strange  affection  for  me,  though  I  had  grown 
away  from  him ;  and  in  his  wild  ravings  he 
constantly  mentioned  my  name,  and  they 
sent  for  me,.  That  was  our  first  meeting 
after  two  years.  I  found  him  in  the  hospital 
— dying.  Heaven  can  witness  that  I  felt 
all  my  old  love  for  him  return  then,  but  he 
was  delirious,  and  never  recognized  me. 
And,  Nathalie,  his  hair — it  had  been  coal- 
black,  and  he  wore  it  very  long,  he  would  n't* 
let  them  cut  it  either  ;  and  as  they  knew  no 
skill  could  save  him,  they  let  him  have  his 
way — his  hair  was  then  as  white  as  snow  ! 
God  alone  knows  what  that  brain  must  have 
suffered  to  blanch  hair  which  had  been  as 
black  as  the  wing  of  a  raven !  " 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and 
sat  silently.  The  fingers  of  the  phantom 
still  shone  dimly  on  his  head,  and  its  white 
locks  drooped  above  him,  like  a  weft  of 

light.  y$: 

"  What  was  his  name,  father  ? "  asked  the 
pitying  girl. 

"  George  Feval.  The  very  name  sounds 
like  fever.  He  died  on  Christmas  eve,  fifteen 
years  ago  this  night.  It  was  on  his  death 
bed,  while  his  mind  was  tossing  on  a  sea  of 


30  THE  GHOST. 

delirious  fancies,  that  he  wrote  me  this  long 
letter — for  to  the  last,  I  was  uppermost  in 
his  thoughts.  It  is  a  wild,  incoherent  thing, 
of  course — a  strange  mixture  of  sense  and 
madness.  But  I  have  kept  it  as  a  memorial 
of  him.  I  have  not  looked  at  it  for  years  ; 
but  this  morning  I  found  it  among  my 
papers,  and  somehow  it  has  been  in  my 
mind  all  day." 

He  slowly  unfolded  the  faded  sheets,  and 
sadly  gazed  at  the  writing.  His  daughter  had 
risen  from  her  half-recumbent  posture,  and 
now  bent  her  graceful  head  over  the  leaves. 
The  phantom  covered  its  face  with  its 
hands. 

"  What  a  beautiful .  manuscript  it  is, 
father  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  The  writing  is 
faultless." 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  he  replied.  "  Would  he 
had  written  his  life  as  fairly  !  " 

"  Read  it,  father,"  said  Nathalie. 

"  No — but  I'll  read  you  a  detached  passage 
here  and  there,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause. 
"  The  rest  you  may  read  yourself  some  time, 
if  you  wish.  It  is  painful  to  me.  Here 's 
the  beginning : 

" '  My  Dea/r  Charles  Renton :  — Adieu, 
and  adieu.  It  is  Christmas  eve,  and  I  am 


THE  GHOST.  31 

going  home.  I  am  soon  to  exhale  from  my 
flesh,  like  the  spirit  of  a  broken  flower. 

Exultemus  forever  ! ' 

***** 

"  It  is  very  wild.  His  mind  was  in  a 
fever-craze.  Here  is  a  passage  that  seems 
to  refer  to  his  own  experience  of  life : 

" '  Your  friendship  was  dear  to  me. 
I  give  you  true  love.  Stocks  and  returns. 
You  are  rich,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  be  your 
bounty*  s  pauper.  Could  Ibeg  f  I  had  my 
work  to  do  for  the  world,  but  oh  !  the  world 
has  no  place  for  souls  that  can  only  love 
and  suffer.  How  many  miles  to  Babylon  ? 
Threescore  and  ten.  Not  so  far — not  near 

so  far  !    Ask  starvelings — they  know. 
***** 

/  wanted  to  do  the  world  good  and  the  world 
has  Icilled  me,  Charles?  " 

"It  frightens  me,"  said  Nathalie,  as  he 
paused. 

"We  will  read  no  more,"  he  replied 
sombrely.  "It  belongs  to  the  psychology 
of  madness.  To  me,  who  knew  him,  there 
are  gleams  of  sense  in  it,  and  passages  where 
the  delirium  of  the  language  is  only  a 
transparent  veil  on  the  meaning.  All  the 
remainder  is  devoted  to  what  he  thought 


32  THE  GHOST. 

important  advice  to  me.  But  it 's  all  wild 
and  vague.  Poor — poor  George !  " 

The  phantom  still  hid  its  face  in  its  hands, 
as  the  doctor  slowly  turned  over  the  pages 
of  the  letter.  Nathalie,  bending  over  the 
leaves,  laid  her  finger  on  the  last,  and  asked 
— "What  are  those  closing  sentences, 
father  ?  Read  them." 

"Oh!  that  is  what  he  called  his  'last 
counsel '  to  me.  It 's  as  wild  as  the  rest — 
tinctured  with  the  prevailing  ideas  of  his 
career.  First  he  says,  farewell— farewell ; ' 
then  he  bids  me  take  his  '  counsel  into 
memory  on  Christmas  day  / '  then,  after 
enumerating  all  the  wretched,  classes  he  can 
think  of  in  the  country,  he  says.  '  These 
are  your  sisters  and  your  brothers — love 
them  all?  Here  he  says,  '  O  friend,  strong 
in  wealth  for  so  much  good,  take  my  last 
counsel.  In  ihe  name  of  the  Saviour,  I 
charge.you  be  tfue-and  tender  to  mankind? 
He  goes  on  to  bid  me  '  live  and  labor  for 
.  the  fallen,  the  neglected,  tlie  suffering,  and 
the  poor ,  '  and  finally  ends  by  advising  me 
to  help  upset  any,  or  all,  institutions,  laws, 
and  so  forth,  that  bear  hardly  on  the 
fag-ends  of  society  ;-and  tells  me  that  what 
he  calls  'a  service  to  humanity '-is  worth 


THE  GHOST.  33 

more  to  the  doer  than  a  service  to  anything 
else,  or  than  anything  we  can  gain  from  the 
world.  Ah,  well !  poor  George." 

"But  isn't  all  that  true,  father?"  said 
Netty ;  "  it  seems  so." 

"  H'm,"  he  murmured  through  his  closed 
lips.  Then,  with  a  vague  smile,  folding  up 
the  letter,  meanwhile,  he  said,  "  Wild  words, 
Netty,  wild  words.  I've  no  objection  to 
charity,  judiciously  given ;  but  poor  George's 
notions  are  not  mine.  Every  man  for  him 
self,  is  a  good  general  rule.  Every  man  for 
humanity,  as  George  has  it,  and  in  his  ac 
ceptation  of  the  principle,  would  send  us  all 
to  the  alms-house  pretty  soon.  The  greatest 
good  of  the  greatest  number — that 's  my  rule 
of  action.  There  are  plenty  of  good  insti 
tutions  for  the  distressed,  and  I  'in  willing 
to  help  support  'em,  and  do.  But  as  for 
making  a  martyr  of  one's  self,  or  tilting 
against  the  necessary  evils  of  society,  or  turn 
ing  philanthropist  at  large,  or  any  quixot 
ism  of  that  sort,  I  do  n't  believe  in  it.  "We 
did  n't  make  the  world,  and  we  can't  mend 
it.  Poor  George.  Well — he 's  at  rest.  The 
world  was  n't  the  place  for  him." 

They  grew  silent.  The  spectre  glided 
slowly  to  the  wall,  and  stood  as  if  it  were 
3 


34  THE  GHOST. 

thinking  what,  with  Dr.  Renton's  rule  of 
action,  was  to  become  of  the  greatest  good 
of  the  smallest  number.  Nathalie  sat  on 
her  father's  knee,  thinking  only  of  George 
Feval,  and  of  his  having  been  starved  and 
grieved  to  death. 

"  Father,"  said  Nathalie,  softly,  "  I  felt, 
while  you  were  reading  the  letter,  as  if  he 
were  near  us.  Did  n't  you  ?  The  room  was 
so  light  and  still,  and  the  wind  sighed  so." 

"  Netty,  dear,  I  Ve  felt  that  all  day,  I  be 
lieve,"  he  replied.  "  Hark !  there  is  the  door 
bell.  Off  goes  the  spirit-world,  and  here 
comes  the  actual.  Confound  it!  Some  one  to 
see  me,  I'll  warrant,  and  I'm  not  in  the  mood." 

He  got  into  a  fret  at  once.  Netty  was  not 
the  Netty  of  an  hour  ago,  or  she  would 
have  coaxed  him  out  of  it.  But  she  did  not 
notice  it  now  in  her  abstraction.  She  had 
risen  at  the  tinkle  of  the  bell,  and  seated 
herself  in  a  chair.  Presently  a  nose,  with 
a  great  pimple  on  the  end  of  it,  appeared 
at  the  edge  of  the  door,  and  a  weak,  piping 
voice  said,  reckless  of  the  proper  tense, 
"  there  was  a  woman  wanted  to  see  you,  sir." 

"Who  is  it,  James? — no  matter,  show 
her  in." 

He  got  up  with  the  vexed  scowl  on  his 


THE  GHOST.  35 

face,  and  walked  the  room.  In  a  minute 
the  library  door  opened  again,  and  a  pale, 
thin,  rigid,  frozen-looking  little  woman, 
scantily  clad,  the  weather  being  considered, 
entered,  and  dropped  a  curt,  awkward  bow 
to  Dr.  Renton. 

"  Oh !  Mrs.  Miller.  Good  evening,  ma'am. 
Sit  down,"  he  said,  with  a  cold,  constrained 
civility. 

The  little  woman  faintly  said,  "  Good 
evening,  Dr.  Renton,"  and  sat  down  stiffly, 
with  her  hands  crossed  before  her,  in  the 
chair  nearest  the  wall.  This  was  the  obdu 
rate  tenant,  who  had  paid  no  rent  for  three 
months,  and  had  a  notice  to  quit,  expiring 
to-morrow. 

"  Cold  evening,  ma'am,"  remarked  Dr. 
Renton,  in  his  hard  way. 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  was  the  cowed,  awkward 
answer. 

"  Won't  you  sit  near  the  fire,  ma'am,"  said 
Netty,  gently ;  "  you  look  cold." 

"  No,  miss,  thank  you.  I  'm  not  cold," 
was  the  faint  reply.  She  was  cold,  though, 
as  well  she  might  be  with  her  poor,  thin 
shawl,  and  open  bonnet,  in  such  a  bitter 
night  as  it  was  ^outside.  And  there  was  a 
rigid,  sharp,  suffering  look  in  her  pinched 


36  THE  GHOST. 

features  that  betokened  she  might  have  been 
hungry,  too. 

"  Poor  people  don't  mind  the  cold  weather, 
miss,"  she  said,  with  a  weak  smile,  her  voice 
getting  a  little  stronger.  "  They  have  to 
bear  it,  and  they  get  used  to  it." 

She  had  not  evidently  borne  it  long 
enough  to  effect  the  point  of  indifference. 
Netty  looked  at  her  with  a  tender  pity. 
Dr.  Renton  thought  to  himself — Hoh  ! — 
blazoning  her  poverty — manufacturing  sym 
pathy  already — the  old  trick — and  steeled 
himself  against  any  attacks  of  that  kind, 
looking  jealously,  meanwhile,  at  Netty. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Miller,"  he  said,  "what  is  it 
this  evening  ?  I  suppose  you've  brought  me 
my  rent." 

The  little  woman  grew  paler,  and  her 
voice  seemed  to  fail  on  her  quivering  lips. 
Netty  cast  a  quick,  beseeching  look  at  her 
father. 

"Nathalie,  please  to  leave  the  room." 
We'll  have  no  nonsense  carried  on  here,  he 
thought,  triumphantly,  as  Netty  rose,  and 
obeyed  the  stern,  decisive  order,  leaving 
the  door  ajar  behind  her. 

He  seated  himself  in  his  chair,  and  reso 
lutely  put  his  right  leg  up  to  rest  on  his  left 


THE  GHOST.  37 

knee.  He  did  not  look  at  his  tenant's  face, 
determined  that  her  piteous  expressions  (got 
up  for  the  occasion,  of  course)  should  be 
wasted  on  him. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Miller,"  he  said  again. 

"  Dr.  Renton,"  she  began,  faintly  gather 
ing  her  voice  as  she  proceeded,  "I  have 
come  to  see  you  about  the  rent.  I  am  very 
sorry,  sir,  to  have  made  you  wait,  but  we 
have  been  unfortunate." 

"  Sorry,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  knowing 
what  was  coming ;  "  but  your  misfortunes 
are  not  my  affair.  We  all  have  misfortunes, 
ma'am.  But  we  must  pay  our  debts,  you 
know." 

"  I  expected  to  have  got  money  from  my 
husband  before  this,  sir,"  she  resumed,  "  and 
I  wrote  to  him.  I  got  a  letter  from  him 
to-day,  sir,  and  it  said  that  he  sent  me  fifty 
dollars  a  month  ago,  in  a  letter  ;  and  it  ap 
pears  that  the  post-office  is  to  blame,  or 
somebody,  for  I  never  got  it.  It  was  nearly 
three  months'  wages,  sir,  and  it  is  very  hard 
to  lose  it.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  that,  your 
rent  would  have  been  paid  long  ago,  sir." 

"  Don't  believe  a  word  of  that  story," 
thought  Dr.  Eenton,  sententiously. 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  she  continued,  embold- 


38  TEE  GHOST. 

ened  by  his  silence,  "  that  if  you  would  be 
willing  to  wait  a  little  longer,  we  would 
manage  to  pay  you  soon,  and  not  let  it  oc 
cur  again.  It  has  been  a  hard  winter  with 
us,  sir ;  firing  is  high,  and  provisions,  and 
everything ;  and  we  're  only  poor  people, 
you  know,  and  it's  difficult  to  get  along." 

The  doctor  made  no  reply. 

"  My  husband  was  unfortunate,  sir,  in  not 
being  able  to  get  employment  here,"  she 
resumed ;  "his  being  out  of  work,  in  the 
autumn,  threw  us  all  back,  and  we  've  got 
nothing  to  depend  on  but  his  earnings.  The 
family  that  he 's  in  now,  sir,  do  n't  give  him 
very  good  pay — only  twenty  dollars  a  month, 
and  his  board — but  it  was  the  best  chance  he 
could  get,  and  it  was  either  go  to  Baltimore 
with  them,  or  stay  at  home  and  starve,  and 
so  he  went,  sir.  It 's  been  a  hard  time  with 
us,  and  one  of  the  children  is  sick,  now, 
with  a  fever,  and  we  do  n't  hardly  know  how 
to  make  out  a  living.  And  so,  sir,  I  have 
come  here  this  evening,  leaving  the  chil 
dren  alone,  to  ask  you  if  you  would  n't  be 
kind  enough  to  wait  a  little  longer,  and  we  '11 
hope  to  make  it  right  with  you  in  the  end." 

"Mrs.  Miller,"  said  Dr.  Benton,  with 
stern  composure,  "  I  have  no  wish  to  ques- 


THE  GHOST.  39 

tion  the  truth  of  any  statement  you  may 
make  ;  but  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  that  I 
can't  afford  to  let  my  houses  for  nothing.  I 
told  you  a  month  ago,  that  if  you  couldn't  pay 
me  my  rent,  you  must  vacate  the  premises. 
You  know  very  well  that  there  are  plenty  of 
tenants  who  are  able  and  willing  to  pay  when 
the  money  comes  due.  You  know  that." 

He  paused  as  he  said  this,  and,  glancing 
at  her,  saw  her  pale  lips  falter.  It  shook 
the  cruelty  of  his  purpose  a  little,  and  he 
had  a  vague  feeling  that  he  was  doing  wrong. 
Not  without  a  proud  struggle,  during  which 
no  word  was  spoken,  could  he  beat  it  down. 
Meanwhile,  the  phantom  had  advanced  a 
pace  toward  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"  That  is  'the  state  of  the  matter,  ma'am," 
he  resumed,  coldly.  "  People  who  will  not 
pay  me  my  rent  must  not  live  in  my  tene 
ments.  You  must  move  out.  I  have  no 
more  to  say." 

"  Dr.  Renton,"  she  said  faintly,  "  I  have 
a  sick  child — how  can  I  move  now  ?  Oh  !  sir, 
it 's  Christmas  eve — don 't  be  hard  with  us !" 

Instead  of  touching  him,  this  speech  irri 
tated  him  beyond  measure.  Passing  all 
considerations  of  her  difficult  position  in 
volved  in  her  piteous  statement,  his  anger 


40  THE  GHOST. 

flashed  at  once  on  her  implication  that  he 
was  unjust  and  unkind.  So  violent  was  his 
excitement  that  it  whirled  away  the  words 
that  rushed  to  his  lips,  and  only  fanned  the 
fury  that  sparkled  from  the  whiteness  of  his 
face  in  his  eyes. 

"  Be  patient  with  us,  sir,"  she  continued ; 
"  we  are  poor,  but  we  mean  to  pay  you  ;  and 
we  can't  move  now  in  this  cold  weather ; 
please,  don't  be  hard  with  us,  sir." 

The  fury  now  burst  out  on  his  face  in  a 
red  and  angry  glow,  and  the  words  came. 

"  Now,  attend  to  me !  "  He  rose  to  his 
feet.  "  I  will  not  hear  any  more  from  you. 
I  know  nothing  of  your  poverty,  nor  of  the 
condition  of  your  family.  All  I  know  is 
that  you  owe  me  three  months'  rent,  and 
that  you  can't  or  won't  pay  me.  I  say,  there 
fore,  leave  the  premises  to  people  who  can 
and  will.  You  have  had  your  legal  notice ; 
quit  my  house  to-morrow ;  if  you  do  n't, 
your  furniture  shall  be  put  in  the  street. 
Mark  me — to-morrow !  " 

The  phantom  had  rushed  into  the  centre 
of  the  room.  Standing,  face  to  face  wdth 
him — dilating — blackening — its  whole  form 
shuddering  witji  a  fury  to  which  his  own 
was  tame — the  semblance  of  a  shriek  upon 


THE  GHOST.  41 

its  flashing  lips,  and  on  its  writhing  features, 
and  an  unearthly  anger  streaming  from  its 
bright  and  terrible  eyes — it  seemed  to  throw 
down,  with  its  tossing  arms,  mountains  of 
hate  and  malediction  on  the  head  of  him 
whose  words  had  smitten  poverty  and  suf 
fering,  and  whose  heavy  hand  was  breaking 
up  the  barriers  of  a  home. 

Dr.  Renton  sank  again  into  his  chair. 
His  tenant — not  a  woman ! — not  a  sister  in 
humanity ! — but  only  his  tenant ;  she  sat 
crushed  and  frightened  by  the  wall.  He 
knew  it  vaguely.  Conscience  was  battling 
in  his  heart  with  the  stubborn  devils  that 
had  entered  there.  The  phantom  stood  be 
fore  him,  like  a  dark  cloud  in  the  image  of  a 
man.  But  its  darkness  was  lightening  slow 
ly,  and  its  ghostly  anger  had  passed  away. 

The  poor  woman,  paler  than  before,  had 
sat  mute  and  trembling,  with  all  her  hopes 
ruined.  Yet  her  desperation  forbade  her 
to  abandon  the  chances  of  his  mercy,  and 
she  now  said : 

"  Dr.  Eenton,  you  surely  do  n't  mean  what 
you  have  told  me.  Won't  you  bear  with 
me  a  little  longer,  and  we  will  yet  make  it 
all  right  with  you  ?  " 

"  I   have   given   you   my   answer,"   he 


42  THE  GHOST. 

returned,  coldly ;  "I  have  no  more  to  add. 
I  never  take  back  anything  I  say — never !  " 

It  was  true.  He  never  did — never  !  She 
half  rose  from  her  seat  as  if  to  go ;  but 
weak  and  sickened  with  the  bitter  result  of 
her  visit,  she  sunk  down  again  with  her 
head  bowed.  There  was  a  pause.  Then, 
solemnly  gliding  across  the  lighted  room,  the 
phantom 'stole  to  her  side  with  a  glory  of 
compassion  on  its  wasted  features.  Tender 
ly,  as  a  son  to  a  mother,  it  bent  over  her ; 
its  spectral  hands  of  light  rested  upon  her 
in  caressing  and  benediction ;  its  shadowy 
fall  of  hair,  once  blanched  by  the  anguish 
of  living  and  loving,  floated  on  her  throb 
bing  brow;  and  resignation  and  comfort 
not  of  this  world,  sank  upon  her  spirit,  and 
consciousness  grew  dim  within  her,  and  care 
and  sorrow  seemed  to  die. 

He  who  had  been  so  cruel  and  so  hard,  sat 
silent  in  black  gloom.  The  stern  and  sullen 
mood  from  which  had  dropped  but  one  fierce 
flash  of  anger,  still  hung  above  the  heat  of 
his  mind,  like  a  dark  rack  of  thunder-cloud. 
It  would  have  burst  anew  into  a  fury  of 
rebuke,  had  he  but  known  his  daughter 
was  listening  at  the  door,  while  the  colloquy 
went  on.  It  might  have  flamed  violently, 


THE  GHOST.  43 

had  his  tenant  made  any  further  attempt  to 
change  his  purpose.  She  had  not.  She  had 
left  the  room  meekly,  with  the  same  curt, 
awkward  bow  that  marked  her  entrance. 
He  recalled  her  manner  very  indistinctly ; 
for  a  feeling,  like  a  mist,  began  to  gather  in 
his  mind,  and  make  the  occurrences  of 
moments  before  uncertain. 

Alone,  now,  he  was  yet  oppressed  with 
a  sensation  that  something  was  near  him. 
Was  it  a  spiritual  instinct  ?  for  the  phantom 
stood  by  his  side.  It  stood  silently,  with 
one  hand  raised  above  his  head,  from  which 
a  pale  flame  seemed  to  flow  downward  to 
his  brain;  its  other  hand  pointed  move- 
lessly  to  the  open  letter  on  the  table  beside 
him. 

He  took  the  sheets  from  the  table,  think 
ing,  at  the  moment,  only  of  George  Feval ; 
but  the  first  line  on  which  his  eye  rested 
was,  "  In  the  name  of  the  Saviour,  I  charge 
you,  be  true  and  tender  to  mankind !  "  and 
the  words  touched  him  like  a  low  voice  from 
the  grave.  Their  penetrant  reproach  pierced 
the  hardness  of  his  heart.  He  tossed  the  let 
ter  back  on  the  table.  The  very  manner  of 
the  act  accused  him  of  an  insult  to  the  dead. 
In  a  moment  he  took  up  the  faded  sheets 


44:  THE  GHOST. 

more  reverently,  but  only  to  lay  them  down 
again. 

He  had  not  been  well  that  day,  arid  he 
now  felt  worse  than  before.  The  pain  in 
his  head  had  given  place  to  a  strange  sense 
of  dilation,  and  there  was  a  silent,  confused 
riot  in  his  fevered  brain,  which  seemed  to 
him  like  the  incipience  of  insanity.  Striv 
ing  to  divert  his  mind  from  what  had  passed, 
by  reflection  on  other  themes,  he  could  not 
hold  his  thoughts ;  they  came  teeming  but 
dim,  and  slipped  and  fell  away ;  and  only 
the  one  circumstance  of  his  recent  cruelty, 
mixed  with  remembrance  of  George  Feval, 
recurred  and  clung  with  vivid  persistence. 
This  tortured  him.  Sitting  there,  with 
arms  tightly  interlocked,  he  resolved  to 
wrench  his  mind  down  by  sheer  will  upon 
other  things ;  and  a  savage  pleasure  at  what 
at  once  seemed  success,  took  possession  of 
him.  In  this  mood,  he  heard  soft  footsteps 
and  the  rustle  of  festal  garments  on  the 
stairs,  and  had  a  fierce  complacency  in  being 
able  to  clearly  apprehend  that  it  was  his 
wife  and  daughter  going  out  to  the  party. 
In  a  moment,  he  heard  the  controlled  and 
even  voice  of  Mrs.  Renton — a  serene  and 
polished  lady  with  whom  he  had  lived  for 


THE  GHOST.  45 

years  in  cold  and  civil  alienation,  both,  see 
ing  as  little  of  each  other  as  possible.  With 
a  scowl  of  will  upon  his  brow,  he  received 
her  image  distinctly  into  his  mind,  even  to 
the  minutia  of  the  dress  and  ornaments  he 
knew  she  wore,  and  felt  an  absolutely  savage 
exultation  in  his  ability  to  retain  it.  Then 
came  the  sound  of  the  closing  of  the  hall 
door  and  the  rattle  of  receding  wheels,  and 
somehow  it  was  Nathalie  and  not  his  wife 
that  he  was  holding  so  grimly  in  his 
thought,  and  with  her,  salient  and  vivid  as 
before,  the  tormenting  remembrance  of  his 
tenant,  connected  with  the  memory  of 
George  Feval.  Springing  to  his  feet,  he 
walked  the  room. 

He  had  thrown  himself  on  a  sofa,  still 
striving  to  be  rid  of  his  remorseful  visita 
tions,  when  the  library  door  opened,  and  the 
inside  man  appeared,  with  his  hand  held 
bashfully  over  his  nose.  It  flashed  on  him 
at  once,  that  his  tenant's  husband  was  the 
servant  of  a  family  like  this  fellow ;  and,  irri 
tated  that  the  whole  matter  should  be  thus 
broadly  forced  upon  him  in  another  way, 
he  harshly  asked  him  what  he  wanted. 
The  man  only  came  in  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ken- 
ton  and  the  young  lady  had  gone  out  for  the 


46  THE  GHOST. 

evening,  but  that  tea  was  laid  for  him 
in  the  dining-room.  He  did  not  want 
any  tea,  and  if  anybody  called,  he  was 
not  at  home.  With  this  charge,  the  man 
left  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind 
him. 

If  he  could  but  sleep  a  little !  Rising 
from  the  sofa,  he  turned  the  lights  of  the 
chandelier  low,  and  screened  the  fire.  The 
room  was  still.  The  ghost  stood,  faintly 
radiant,  in  a  remote  corner.  Dr.  Rentori 
lay  down  again,  but  not  to  repose.  Things 
he  had  forgotten  of  his  dead  friend,  now 
started  up  again  in  remembrance,  fresh  from 
the  grave  of  many  years ;  and  not  one  of 
them  but-  linked  itself  by  some  mysterious 
bond  to  something  connected  with  his  ten 
ant,  and  became  an  accusation. 

He  had  lain  thus  for  more  than  an  hour, 
feeling  more  and  more  unmanned  by  illness, 
and  his  mental  excitement  fast  becoming  in 
tolerable,  when  he  heard  a  low  strain  of  mu 
sic,  from  the  Swedenborgian  chapel,  hard 
by.  Its  first  impression  was  one  of  solemnity 
and  rest,  and  its  first  sense,  in  his  mind, 
was  of  relief.  Perhaps  it  was  the  music  of 
an  evening  meeting;  or  it  might  be  that 
the  organist  and  choir  had  met  for  practice. 


THE  GHOST.  47 

"Whatever  its  purpose,  it  breathed  through 
his  heated  fancy  like  a  cool  and  fragrant 
wind.  It  was  vague  and  sweet  and  wan 
dering  at  first,  straying  on  into  a  strain  more 
mysterious  and  melancholy,  but  very  shad 
owy  and  subdued,  and  evoking  the  innocent 
and  tender  moods  of  early  youth  before 
worldliness  had  hardened  around  his  heart. 
Gradually,  as  he  listened  to  it,  the  fires  in 
his  brain  were  allayed,  and  all  yielded  to  a 
sense  of  coolness  and  repose.  He  seemed 
to  sink  from  trance  to  trance  of  utter  rest, 
and  yet  was  dimly  aware  that  either  some 
thing  in  his  own  condition,  or  some  super 
natural  accession  of  tone,  was  changing  the 
music  from  its  proper  quality  to  a  harmony 
more  infinite  and  awful.  It  was  still  low 
and  indeterminate  and  sweet,  but  had  un 
accountably  and  strangely  swelled  into  a 
gentle  and  sombre  dirge,  incommunicably 
mournful,  and  filled  with  a  dark  significance 
that  touched  him  in  his  depth  of  rest  with 
a  secret  tremor  and  awe.  As  he  listened, 
rapt  and  vaguely  wondering,  the  sense  of 
his  tranced  sinking  seemed  to  come  to  an 
end,  and  with  the  feeling  of  one  who  had 
been  descending  for  many  hours,  and  at 
length  lay  motionless  at  the  bottom  of  a 


48  THE  GHOST. 

deep,  dark  chasm,  lie  heard  the  music  fail 
and  cease. 

A  pause,  and  then  it  rose  again,  blended 
•with  the  solemn  voices  of  the  choir,  sublimed 
and  dilated  now,  reaching  him  as  though 
from  weird  night  gulfs  of  the  upper  air,  and 
charged  with  an  overmastering  pathos  as  of 
the  lamentations  of  angels.  In  the  dimness 
and  silence,  in  the  aroused  and  exalted  con 
dition  of  his  being,  the  strains  seemed  un 
earthly  in  their  immense  and  desolate 
grandeur  of  sorrow,  and  their  mournful  and 
dark  significance  was  now  for  him.  Work 
ing  within  him  the  impression  of  vast,  in 
numerable,  fleeing  shadows,  thick-crowding 
memories  of  all  the  ways  and  deeds  of  an 
existence  fallen  from  its  early  dreams  and 
aims,  poured  across  the  midnight  of  his  soul, 
and  under  the  streaming  melancholy  of  the 
dirge,  his  life  showed  like  some  monstrous 
treason.  It  did  not  terrify  or  madden  him  ; 
he  listened  to  it  rapt  utterly  as  in  some 
deadening  ether  of  dream ;  yet  feeling  to  his 
inmost  core  all  its  powerful  grief  and  accu 
sation,  and  quietly  aghast  at  the  sinister 
consciousness  it  gave  him.  Still  it  swelled, 
gathering  and  sounding  on  into  yet  mightier 
pathos,  till  all  at  once  it  darkened  and  spread 


•    THE  GHOST.  49 

wide  in  wild  despair,  and  aspiring  again  into 
a  pealing  agony  of  supplication,  quivered 
and  died  away  in  a  low  and  funereal  sigh. 

The  'tears  streamed  suddenly  upon  his 
face;  his  soul  lightened  and  turned  dark 
within  him  ;  and  as  one  faints  away,  so  con 
sciousness  swooned,  and  he  fell  suddenly 
down  a  precipice  of  sleep.  The  music  rose 
again,  a  pensive  and  holy  chant,  and  sounded 
on  to  its  close,  unaffected  by  the  action  of 
his  brain,  for  he  slept  and  heard  it  no  more. 
He  lay  tranquilly,  hardly  seeming  to  breathe, 
in  motionless  repose.  The  room  was  dim 
and  silent,  and  the  furniture  took  uncouth 
shapes  around  him.  The  red  glow  upon 
the  ceiling,  from  the  screened  fire,  showed 
the  misty  figure  of  the  phantom  kneeling 
by  his  side.  All  light  had  gone  from  the 
spectral  form.  It  knelt  beside  him,  mutely, 
as  in  prayer.  Once  it  gazed  at  his  quiet 
face  with  a  mournful  tenderness,  and  its 
shadowy  hands  caressed  his  forehead.  Then 
it  resumed  its  former  attitude,  and  the  slow 
hours  crept  by. 

At  last  it  rose  and  glided  to  the  table, 

on  which  lay  the  open  letter.     It  seemed  to 

try  to  lift  the  sheets  with  its  misty  hands — 

but  vainly.     Next  it  essayed  the  lifting  of 

4 


50  THE  GHOST. 

a  pen  which  lay  there — but  failed.  It  was 
a  piteous  sight,  to  see  its  idle  efforts  on 
these  shapes  of  grosser  matter,  which  ap 
peared  now  to  have  to  it  but  the  existence 
of  illusions.  "Wandering  about  the  shad 
owy  room,  it  wrung  its  phantom  hands  as 
in  despair. 

Presently  it  grew  still.  Then  it  passed 
quickly  to  his  side,  and  stood  before  him. 
He  slept  calmly.  It  placed  one  ghostly 
hand  above  his  forehead,  and,  with  the 
other  pointed  to  the  open  letter.  In  this 
attitude  its  shape  grew  momentarily  more 
distinct.  It  began  to  kindle  into  bright 
ness.  The  pale  flame  again  flowed  from 
its  hand,  streaming  downward  to  his  brain. 
A  look  of  trouble  darkened  the  sleeping  face. 
Stronger  —  stronger  ;  brighter  —  brighter ; 
until,  at  last,  it  stood  before  him,  a  glorious 
shape  of  light,  with  an  awful  look  of  com 
manding  love  in  its  shining  features— and 
the  sleeper  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  cry ! 

The  phantom  had  vanished.  He  saw 
nothing.  His  first  impression  was,  not 
that  he  had  dreamed,  but  that,  awaking  in 
the  familiar  room,  he  had  seen  the  spirit  of 
his  dead  friend,  bright  and  awful  by  his 
side,  and  that  it  had  gone  !  In  the  flash  of 


THE  GHOST.  51 

that  quick  change,  from  sleeping  to  waking, 
he  had  detected,  he  thought,  the  unearthly 
being  that,  he  now  felt,  watched  him  from 
behind  the  air,  and  it  had  vanished !  The 
library  was  the  same  as  in  the  moment  of 
that  supernatural  revealing ;  the  open  letter 
lay  upon  the  table  still ;  only  that  was  gone 
whicli  had  made  these  common  aspects  ter 
rible.  Then,  all  the  hard,  strong  skepticism 
of  his  nature,  which  had  been  driven  back 
ward  by  the  shock  of  his  first  conviction, 
recoiled,  and  rushed  within  him,  violently 
struggling  for  its  former  vantage  ground ; 
till,  at  length,  it  achieved  the  foothold  for 
a  doubt.  Could  he  have  dreamed?  The 
ghost,  invisible,  still  watched  him.  Yes 
— a  dream — only  a  dream ;  but,  how  vivid 
— how  strange  !  With  a  slow  thrill  creep 
ing  through  his  veins — the  blood  curdling 
at  his  heart — a  cold  sweat  starting  on  his 
forehead,  he  stared  through  the  dimness  of 
the  room.  All  was  vacancy. 

With  a  strong  shudder,  he  strode  forward, 
and  turned  up  the  flames  of  the  chandelier. 
A  flood  of  garish  light  filled  -the  apartment. 
In  a  moment,  remembering  the  letter  to 
which  the  phantom  of  his  dream  had 
pointed,  he  turned  and  took  it  from  the  table. 


52  THE  GHOST. 

The  last  page  lay  upward,  and  every  word 
of  the  solemn  counsel  at  the  end  seemed  to 
dilate  on  the  paper,  and  all  its  mighty  mean 
ing  rushed  upon  his  soul.  Trembling  in 
his  own  despite,  he  laid  it  down  and  moved 
away.  A  physician,  he  remembered  that  he 
was  in  a  state  of  violent  nervous  excitement, 
and  thought  that  when  he  grew  calmer  its 
effects  would  pass  from  him.  But  the  hand 
that  had  touched  him  had  gone  down  deeper 
than  the  physician,  and  reached  what  God 
had  made. 

He  strove  in  vain.  The  very  room,  in  its 
light  and  silence,  and  the  lurking  sentiment 
of  something  watching  him,  became  terrible. 
He  could  not  endure  it.  The  devils  in  his 
heart,  grown  pusillanimous,  cowered  be 
neath  the  flashing  strokes  of  his  aroused 
and  terrible  conscience.  He  could  not  en 
dure  it.  He  must  go  out.  He  will  walk 
the  streets.  It  is  not  late — it  is  but  ten 
o'clock.  He  will  go. 

The  air  of  his  dream  still  hung  heavily 
about  him.  He  was  in  the  street — he  hard 
ly  remembered  how  he  had  got  there,  or 
when ;  but  there  he  was,  wrapped  up  from 
the  searching  cold,  thinking,  with  a  quiet 
horror  in  his  mind,  of  the  darkened  room 


THE  GHOST.  53 

he  had  left  behind,  and  haunted  by  the 
sense  that  something  was  groping  about 
there  in  the  darkness,  searching  for  him. 
The  night  was  still  and  cold.  The  full 
moon  was  in  the  zenith.  Its  icy  splendor 
lay  on  the  bare  streets,  and  on  the  walls  of 
the  dwellings.  The  lighted  oblong  squares 
of  curtained  windows,  here  and  there, 
seemed  dim  and  waxen  in  the  frigid  glory. 
The  familiar  aspect  of  the  quarter  had 
passed  away,  leaving  behind  only  a  corpse- 
like  neighborhood,  whose  huge,  dead  feat 
ures,  staring  rigidly  through  the  thin,  white 
shroud  of  moonlight  that  covered  all,  left 
no  breath  upon  the  stainless  skies.  Through 
the  vast  silence  of  the  night  he  passed 
along;  the  very  sound  of  his  footfalls  was 
remote  to  his  muffled  sense. 

Gradually,  as  he  reached  the  first  corner, 
he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  a  thing — a 
formless,  unimaginable  thing — was  dogging 
him.  He  had  thought  of  going  down  to 
his  club-room ;  but  he  now  shrank  from  en 
tering,  with  this  thing  near  him,  the  lighted 
rooms  where  his  set  were  busy  with  cards 
and  billiards,  over  their  liquors  and  cigars, 
and  where  the  heated  air  was  full  of  their 
idle  faces  and  careless  chatter,  lest  some  one 


54  THE  GHOST. 

should  bawl  out  that  he  was  pale,  and  ask 
him  what  was  the  matter,  and  he  should 
answer,  tremblingly,  that  something  was 
following  him,  and  was  near  him  then! 
He  must  get  rid  of  it  first ;  he  must  walk 
quickly,  and  baffle  its  pursuit  by  turning 
sharp  corners,  and  plunging  into  devious 
streets  and  crooked  lanes,  and  so  lose  it ! 

It  was  difficult  to  reach  through  memory 
to  the  crazy  chaos  of  his  mind  on  that 
night,  and  recall  the  route  he  took  while 
haunted  by  this  feeling ;  but  he  afterward 
remembered  that,  without  any  other  pur 
pose  than  to  baffle  his  imaginary  pursuer, 
he  traversed  at  a  rapid  pace  a  large  portion 
of  the  moonlit  city ;  always  (he  knew  not 
why)  avoiding  the  more  populous  thorough 
fares,  and  choosing  unfrequented  and  tortu 
ous  byways,  but  never  ridding  himself  of 
that  horrible  confusion  of  mind  in  which 
the  faces  of  his  dead  friend  and  the  pale 
woman  were  strangely  blended,  nor  of  the 
fancy  that  he  was  followed.  Once,  as  he 
passed  the  hospital  where  Feval  died,  a 
faint  hint  seemed  to  flash  and  vanish  from 
the  clouds  of  his  lunacy,  and  almost  identify 
the  dogging  goblin  with  the  figure  of  his 
dream ;  but  the  conception  instantly  mixed 


THE  GHOST.  55 

with  a  disconnected  remembrance  that  this 
was  Christmas  eve,  and  then  slipped  from 
him,  and  was  lost.  He  did  not  pause  there, 
but  strode  on.  But  just  there,  what  had 
been  frightful  became  hideous.  For  at  once 
he  was  possessed  with  the  conviction  that 
the  thing  that  lurked  at  a  distance  behind 
him,  was  quickening  its  movement,  and 
coming  up  to  seize  him.  The  dreadful  fancy 
stung  him  like  a  goad,  and,  with  a  start,  he 
accelerated  his  flight,  horribly  conscious  that 
what  he  feared  was  slinking  along  in  the 
shadow,  close  to  the  dark  bulks  of  the  houses, 
resolutely  pursuing,  and  bent  on  overtaking 
him.  Faster !  His  footfalls  rang  hollowly 
and  loud  on  the  moonlit  pavement,  and  in 
contrast  with  their  rapid  thuds  he  felt  it  as 
something  peculiarly  terrible  that  the  furtive 
thing  behind,  slunk  after  him  with  soundless 
feet.  Faster,  faster!  Traversing  only  the 
most  unfrequented  streets,  and  at  that  late 
hour  of  a  cold  winter  night,  he  met  no  one, 
and  with  a  terrifying  consciousness  that  his 
pursuer  was  gaining  on  him,  he  desperately 
strode  on.  He  did  not  dare  to  look  behind, 
dreading  less  what  he  might  see,  than  the 
momentary  loss  of  speed  the  action  might 
occasion.  Faster,  faster,  faster !  And  all  at 


56  THE  GHOST. 

once  he  knew  that  the  dogging  thing  had 
dropped  its  stealthy  pace  and  was  racing  up 
to  him.  With  a  bound  he  broke  into  a  run, 
seeing,  hearing,  heeding  nothing,  aware  only 
that  the  other  was  silently  louping  on  his 
track  two  steps  to  his  one ;  and  with  that 
frantic  apprehension  upon  him,  he  gained 
the  next  street,  flung  himself  around  the 
corner  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  and  his 
arms  convulsively  drawn  up  for  a  grapple ; 
and  felt  something  rush  whirring  past  his 
flank,  striking  him  on  the  shoulder  as  it  went 
by,  with  a  buffet  that  made  a  shock  break 
through  his  frame.  That  shock  restored 
him  to  his  senses.  His  delusion  was  sud 
denly  shattered.  The  goblin  was  gone.  He 
was  free. 

He  stood  panting,  like  one  just  roused 
from  some  terrible  dream,  wiping  the  reek 
ing  perspiration  from  his  forehead  and 
thinking  confusedly  and  wearily  what  a 
fool  he  had  been.  He  felt  he  had  wan 
dered  a  long  distance  from  his  house, 
but  had  no  distinct  perception  of  his 
whereabouts.  He  only  knew  he  was  in 
some  thinly-peopled  street,  whose  familiar 
aspect  seemed  lost  to  him  in  the  magical 
disguise  the  superb  moonlight  had  thrown 


THE  GHOST.  57 

over  all.  Suddenly  a  film  seemed  to  drop 
from  his  eyes,  as  they  became  riveted  on  a 
lighted  window,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way.  He  started,  and  a  secret  terror  crept 
over  him,  vaguely  mixed  with  the  memory 
of  the  shock  he  had  felt  as  he  turned  the 
last  corner,  and  his  distinct,  awful  feeling 
that  something  invisible  had  passed  him. 
At  the  same  instant  he  felt,  and  thrilled  to 
feel,  a  touch,  as  of  a  light  finger,  on  his 
cheek.  He  was  in  Hanover  street.  Before 
him  was  the  house — the  oyster-room  staring 
at  him  through  the  lighted  transparencies 
of  its  two  windows,  like  two  square  eyes, 
below ;  and  his  tenant's  light  in  a  chamber 
above !  The  added  shock  which  this  dis 
covery  gave  to  the  heaving  of  his  heart, 
made  him  gasp  for  breath.  Could  it  be? 
Did  he  still  dream  ?  While  he  stood  pant 
ing  and  staring  at  the  building,  the  city 
clocks  began  to  strike.  Eleven  o'clock ;  it 
was  ten  when  he  came  away ;  how  he  must 
have  driven !  His  thoughts  caught  up  the 
word.  Driven — by  what  ?  Driven  from 
his  house  in  horror,  through  street  and  lane, 
over  half  the  city — driven — hunted  in  ter 
ror,  and  smitten  by  a  shock  here !  Driven — 
driven !  He  could  not  rid  his  mind  of  the 


58  THE  GHOST. 

word,  nor  of  the  meaning  it  suggested. 
The  pavements  about  him  began  to  ring 
and  echo  with  the  tramp  of  many  feet, 
and  the  cold,  brittle  air  was  shivered  with 
the  noisy  voices  that  had  roared  and 
bawled  applause  and  laughter  at  the  Na 
tional  Theatre  all  the  evening,  and  were 
now  singing  and  howling  homeward. 
Groups  of  rude  men,  and  ruder  boys,  their 
breaths  steaming  in  the  icy  air,  began  to 
tramp  by,  jostling  him  as  they  passed,  till 
he  was  forced  to  draw  back  to  the  wall,  and 
give  them  the  sidewalk.  Dazed  and  gid 
dy,  in  cold  fear,  and  with  the  returning 
sense  of  something  near  him,  he  stood  and 
watched  the  groups  that  pushed  and  tum 
bled  in  through  the  entrance  of  the  oyster- 
room,  whistling  and  chattering  as  they 
went,  and  banging  the  door  behind  them. 
He  noticed  that  some  came  out  presently, 
banging  the  door  harder,  and  went,  smok 
ing  and  shouting,  down  the  street.  Still 
they  poured  in  and  out,  while  the  street  was 
startled  with  their  stimulated  riot,  and  the 
bar-room  within  echoed  their  trampling  feet 
and  hoarse  voices.  Then,  as  his  glance  wan 
dered  upward  to  his  tenant's  window,  he 
thought  of  the  sick  child,  mixing  this  hid- 


THE  GHOST.  59 

eous  discord  in  the  dreams  of  fever.  The 
word  brought  up  the  name  and  the  thought 
of  his  dead  friend.  "  In  the  name  of  the 
Saviour,  I  charge  you  be  true  and  tender 
to  mankind !  "  The  memory  of  these  words 
seemed  to  ring  clearly,  as  if  a  voice  had 
spoken  them,  above  the  roar  that  suddenly 
rose  in  his  mind.  In  that  moment  he  felt 
himself  a  wretched  and  most  guilty  man. 
He  felt  that  his  cruel  words  had  entered 
that  humble  home,  to  make  desperate  pov 
erty  more  desperate,  to  sicken  sickness,  and 
to  sadden  sorrow.  Before  him  was  the 
dram-shop,  let  and  licensed  to  nourish  the 
worst  and  most  brutal  appetites  and  in 
stincts  of  human  natures,  at  the  sacrifice 
of  all  their  highest  and  holiest  tendencies. 
The  throng  of  tipplers  and  drunkards  was 
swarming  through  its  hopeless  door,  to  gulp 
the  fiery  liquor  whose  fumes  give  all  shames, 
vices,  miseries,  and  crimes,  a  lawless  strength 
and  life,  and  change  the  man  into  the  pig 
or  tiger.  Murder  was  done,  or  nearly  done, 
within  those  walls  last  night.  Within  those 
walls  no  good  was  ever  done;  but,  daily, 
unmitigated  evil,  whose  results  were  reach 
ing  on  to  torture  unborn  generations.  He 
had  consented  to  it  all!  He  could  not 


60  THE  GHOST. 

falter,  or  equivocate,  or  evade,  or  excuse. 
His  dead  friend's  words  rang  in  his  con 
science  like  the  trump  of  the  judgment 
angel.  He  was  conquered. 

Slowly,  the  resolve  to  instantly  go  in  up 
rose  within  him,  and  with  it  a  change  came 
upon  his  spirit,  and  the  natural  world, 
sadder  than  before,  but  sweeter,  seemed 
to  come  back  to  him.  A  great  feeling  of 
relief  flowed  upon  his  mind.  Pale  and 
trembling  still,  he  crossed  the  street  with 
a  quick,  unsteady  step,  entered  a  yard  at 
the  side  of  the  house,  and,  brushing  by  a 
host  of  white,  rattling  spectres  of  frozen 
clothes,  which  dangled  from  lines  in  the  in- 
closure,  mounted  some  wooden  steps,  and 
rang  the  bell.  In  a  minute  he  heard  foot 
steps  within,  and  saw  the  gleam  of  a 
lamp.  His  heart  palpitated  violently  as 
he  heard  thet  lock  turning,  lest  the  answerer 
of  his  summons  might  be  his  tenant. 
The  door  opened,  and,  to  his  relief,  he 
stood  before  a  rather  decent-looking  Irish 
man,  bending  forward  in  his  stocking  feet, 
with  one  boot  and  a  lamp  in  his  hand. 
The  man  stared  at  him  from  a  wild  head 
of  tumbled  red  hair,  with  a  half  smile 
round  his  loose  open  mouth,  and  said, 


THE  GHOST.  61 

"  Begorra ! "  This  was  a  second  floor 
tenant. 

Dr.  Renton  was  relieved  at  the  sight  of 
him  ;  but  he  rather  failed  in  an  attempt  at 
his  rent-day  suavity  of  manner,  when  he 
said : 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Flanagan.  Do  you 
think  I  can  see  Mrs.  Miller  to-night  ? " 

"  She  's  up  there,  docther,  anyway."  Mr. 
Flanagan  made  a  sudden  start  for  the  stairs, 
with  the  boot  and  lamp  at  arm's  length  be 
fore  him,  and  stopped  as  suddenly.  "  Yull 
go  up  ? — or  wud  she  come  down  to  ye  ? " 
There  was  as  much  anxious  indecision  in 
Mr.  Flanagan's  general  aspect,  pending  the 
reply,  as  if  he  had  to  answer  the  question 
himself. 

"  I  '11  go  up,  Mr.  Flanagan,"  returned  Dr. 
Renton,  stepping  in,  after  a  pause,  and 
shutting  the  door.  "  But  I  'm  afraid  she 's 
in  bed." 

"Naw — she  's  not,  sur."  Mr.  Flana 
gan  made  another  feint  with  the  boot 
and  lamp  at  the  stairs,  but  stopped  again 
in  curious  bewilderment,  and  rubbed  his 
head.  Then,  with  another  inspiration,  and 
speaking  with  such  velocity  that  his  words 
ran  into  each  other,  pell-mell,  he  continued : 


62  THE  GHOST. 

"  Th'  small  girl's  sick,  sur.  Begorra,  I  wov 
just  pullin'  on  th'  boots  tuh  gaw  for  the 
docther,  in  th'  nixt  streth,  an'  summons  him 
to  her  relehf,  fur  it's  bad  she  is.  A'id  bet- 
ther  be  goan."  Another  start,  and  a  move 
ment  to  put  on  the  boot  instantly,  baffled 
by  his  getting  the  lamp  into  the  leg  of  it, 
and  involving  himself  in  difficulties  in  try 
ing  to  get  it  out  again  without  dropping 
either,  and  stopped  finally  by  Dr.  Renton. 

"You  needn't  go,  Mr.  Flanagan.  I'll 
see  to  the  child.  Do  n't  go." 

He  stepped  slowly  up  the  stairs,  followed 
by  the  bewildered  Flanagan.  All  this  time 
Dr.  Renton  was  listening  to  the  racket  from 
the  bar-room.  Clinking  of  glasses,  rattling 
of  dishes,  trampling  of  feet,  oaths  and 
laughter,  and  a  confused  din  of  coarse  voices, 
mingling  with  boisterous  calls  for  oysters 
and  drink,  came,  hardly  deadened  by  the 
partition  walls,  from  the  haunt  below,  and 
echoed  through  the  corridors.  Loud  enough 
within — louder  in  the  street  without,  where 
the  oysters  and  drink  were  reeling  and  roar 
ing  off  to  brutal  dreams.  People  trying  to 
sleep  here  ;  a  sick  child  up  stairs.  Listen  ! 
"  Two  stew !  One  roast !  Four  ale !  Hurry 
'em  up !  Tliree  stew !  In  number  six ! 


THE  GHOST.  63 

One  fancy — two  roast !  One  sling  !  Three 
brandy — hot  !  Two  stew !  One  whisk' 
skin  !  Hurry  'em  up !  What  yeh  'bout ! 
Three  brand'  punch — hot!  Four  stew! 
What-je-e-h  'BOUT  !  Two  gin-cock-t'il !  One 
stew !  Hu-r-r-y  'em  up  !  "  Clashing,  rat 
tling,  cursing,  swearing,  laughing,  shouting, 
trampling,  stumbling,  driving,  slamming, 
of  doors.  "  Hu-r-ry  'em  UP." 

"Flanagan,"  said  Dr.  Renton,  stopping 
at  the  first  landing,  "  do  you  have  this  noise 
every  night  ? " 

"  Kaise  ?  Hoo !  Divil  a  night,  docther, 
but  I'm  wehked  out  ov  me  bed  wid  'em, 
Sundays  an'  all.  Sure  didn't  they  murdher 
wan  of  'em,  out  an'  out,  last  night !  " 

"  Is  the  man  dead  ? " 

"  Dead  ?     Troth  he  is.     An'  cowld." 

"H'm" — through  his  compressed  lips. 
"  Flanagan,  you  needn't  come  up.  I  know 
the  door.  Just  hold  the  light  for  me  here. 
There,  that  '11  do.  Thank  you."  He  whis 
pered  the  last  words  from  the  top  of  the 
second  flight. 

"Are  ye  there,  docther?"  Flanagan 
anxious  to  the  last,  and  trying  to  peer  up 
at  him  with  the  lamp-light  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yes.   That  '11  do.   Thank  you !  "  in  the 


64  THE  GHOST. 

same  whisper.  Before  he  could  tap  at  the 
door,  then  darkening  in  the  receding  light, 
it  opened  suddenly,  and  a  big  Irish  woman 
bounced  out,  and  then  whisked  in  again, 
calling  to  some  one  in  an  inner  room : 
"  Here  he  is,  Mrs.  Mill'r,"  and  then  bounced 
out  again,  with  a  "Walk  royt  in,  if  you 
plaze ;  here's  the  choild  " — and  whisked  in 
again,  with  a  "  Sure  an'  Jehms  was  quick ; " 
never  once  looking  at  him,  and  utterly  un 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  her  landlord. 
He  had  hardly  stepped  into  the  room  and 
taken  off  his  hat,  when  Mrs.  Miller  came 
from  the  inner  chamber  with  a  lamp  in  her 
hand.  How  she  started!  "With  her  pale 
face  grown  suddenly  paler,  and  her  hand 
on  her  bosom,  she  could  only  exclaim : 
"  Why,  it's  Dr.  Eenton ! "  and  stand,  still 
and  dumb,  gazing  with  a  frightened  look  at 
his  face,  whiter  than  her  own.  Whereupon 
Mrs.  Flanagan  came  bolting  out  again, 
with  wild  eyes  and  a  sort  of  stupefied  horror 
in  her  good,  coarse,  Irish  features ;  and 
then,  with  some  uncouth  ejaculation,  ran 
back,  and  was  heard  to  tumble  over  some 
thing  within,  and  tumble  something  else 
over  in  her  fall,  and  gather  herself  up  with 
a  subdued  howl,  and  subside. 


THE  GHOST.  65 

"  Mrs.  Miller,"  began  Dr.  Renton,  in  a 
low,  husky  voice,  glancing  at  her  frightened 
face,  "  I  hope  you  '11  be  composed.  I  spoke 
to  you  very  harshly  and  rudely  to-night ; 
but  I  really  was  not  myself — I  was  in  anger 
— and  I  ask  your  pardon.  Please  to  over 
look  it  all,  and — but  I  will  speak  of  this 
presently;  now — I  am  a  physician;  will 
you  let  me  look  now  at  your  sick  child  ?  " 

He  spoke  hurriedly,  but  with  evident 
sincerity.  For  a  moment  her  lips  faltered ; 
then  a  slow  flush  came  up,  with  a  quick 
change  of  expression  on  her  thin,  worn 
face,  and,  reddening  to  painful  scarlet,,  died 
away  in  a  deeper  pallor. 

"  Dr.  Renton,"  she  said,  hastily,  "  I  have 
no  ill-feeling  for  you,  sir,  and  I  know  you 
were  hurt  and  vexed — and  I  know  you 
have  tried  to  make  it  up  to  me  again,  sir — 
secretly.  I  know  who  it  was,  now ;  but  I 
can't  take  it,  sir.  You  must  take  it  back. 
You  know  it  was  you  sent  it,  sir  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Miller,"  he  replied,  puzzled  be 
yond  measure,  "  I  do  n't  understand  you. 
What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Do  n't  deny  it,  sir.  Please  not  to," 
she  said  imploringly,  the  tears  starting  to 
her  eyes.  "  I  am  very  grateful — indeed  I 
5 


66  THE  GHOST. 

am.  But  I  can't  accept  it.  Do  take  it 
again." 

"Mrs.  Miller,"  he  replied,  in  a  hasty 
voice,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  have  sent 
you  nothing — nothing  at  all.  I  have,  there 
fore,  nothing  to  receive  again." 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly,  evidently 
impressed  by  the  fervor  of  his  denial. 

"  You  sent  me'  nothing  to-night,  sir  ? " 
she  asked,  doubtfully. 

"Nothing  at  any  time — nothing,"  he 
answered,  firmly. 

It  would  have  been  folly  to  have  dis 
believed  the  truthful  look  of  his  wondering 
face,  and  she  turned  away  in  amazement 
and  confusion.  There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  I  hope,  Mrs.  Miller,  you  will  not  refuse 
any  assistance  I  can  render  to  your  child," 
he  said,  at  length. 

She  started,  and  replied,  tremblingly  and 
confusedly,  "  ISTo,  sir ;  we  shall  be  grateful 
to  you,  if  you  can  save  her" — and  went 
quickly,  with  a  strange  abstraction  on  her 
white  face,  into  the  inner  room.  He  fol 
lowed  her  at  once,  and,  hardly  glancing  at 
Mrs.  Flanagan,  who  sat  there  in  stupefac 
tion,  with  her  apron  over  her  head  and  face, 
he  laid  his  hat  on  a  table,  went  to  the  bed- 


THE  GHOST.  67 

side  of  the  little  girl,  and  felt  her  head  and 
pulse.  He  soon  satisfied  himself  that  the 
little  sufferer  was  in  no  danger,  under  prop 
er  remedies,  and  now  dashed  down  a  pre 
scription  on  a  leaf  from  his  pocket-book. 
Mrs.  Flanagan,  who  had  come  out  from  the 
retirement  of  her  apron,  to  stare  stupidly 
at  him  during  the  examination,  suddenly 
bobbed  up  on  her  legs,  with  enlightened 
alacrity,  when  he  asked  if  there  was  any 
one  that  could  go  out  to  the  apothecary's, 
and  said,  "  sure  I  wull !  "  He  had  a  little 
trouble  to  make  her  understand  that  the 
prescription,  which  she  took  by  the  corner, 
holding  it  away  from  her,  as  if  it  were  going 
to  explode  presently,  and  staring  at  it  up 
side  down — was  to  be  left — "  left,  mind 
you,  Mrs.  Flanagan — -with  the  apothecary 
— Mr.  Flint — at  the  nearest  corner — and  he 
will  give  you  some  things,  which  you  are 
to  bring  here."  But  she  had  shuffled  off  at 
last  with  a  confident,  "yis,  sur — aw,  I 
knoo,"  her  head  nodding  satisfied  assent, 
and  her  big  thumb  covering  the  note  on  the 
margin,  "  charge  to  Dr.  0.  Renton,  Bow- 
doin  street,"  (which  /know,  could  not  keep 
it  from  the  eyes  of  the  angels !)  and  he  sat 
down  to  await  her  return. 


68  THE  GHOST. 

"  Mrs.  Miller,"  he  said,  kindly,  "  do  n't  be 
alarmed  about  your  child.  She  is  doing 
well ;  and,  after  you  have  given  her  the 
medicine  Mrs.  Flanagan  will  bring,  you  '11 
find  her  much  better,  to-morrow.  She  must 
be  kept  cool  and  quiet,  you  know,  and  she  '11 
be  all  right  soon." 

"  Oh !  Dr.  Renton,  I  am  very  grateful," 
was  the  tremulous  reply ;  "  and  we  will  fol 
low  all  directions,  sir.  It  is  hard  to  keep 
her  quiet,  sir ;  we  keep  as  still  as  we  can, 
and  the  other  children  are  very  still ;  but 
the  street  is  very  .noisy  all  the  daytime  and 
evening,  sir,  and — " 

"  I  know  it,  Mrs.  Miller.  And  1  'in  afraid 
those  people  down-stairs  disturb  you  some 
what." 

"  They  make  some  stir  in  the  evening, 
sir ;  and  it 's  rather  loud  in  the  street  some 
times,  at  night.  The  folks  on  the  lower 
floors  are  troubled  a  good  deal,  they  say." 

Well  they  may  be.  Listen  to  the  bawl 
ing  outside,  now,  cold  as  it  is.  Hark ! 
A  hoarse  group  on  the  opposite  side 
walk  beginning  a  song.  "  Ro-o-1  on,  sil-ver 
mo-o-n  " — .  The  silver  moon  ceases  to  roll 
in  a  sudden  explosion  of  yells  and  laughter, 
sending  up  broken  fragments  of  curses, 


THE  GHOST.  69 

ribald  jeers,  whoopings,  and  cat-calls,  high 
into  the  night  air.  "  Ga-1-a-ng !  Hi-hi ! 
What  ye-e-h  'lout !  " 

"  This  is  outrageous,  Mrs.  Miller.  Where's 
the  watchman  ? " 

She  smiled  faintly.  "He  takes  one  of 
them  off  occasionally,  sir ;  but  he 's  afraid  ; 
they  beat  him  sometimes."  A  long  pause. 

"  Is  n't  your  room  rather  cold,  Mrs.  Mil 
ler?"  He  glanced  at  the  black  stove, 
dimly  seen  in  the  outer  room.  "  It  is 
necessary  to  keep  the  rooms  cool  just  now, 
but  this  air  seems  to  me  cold." 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  looked  at  her, 
and  saw  the  sad  truth  in  her  averted  face. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  quickly, 
flushing  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "  I  might 
have  known,  after  what  you  said  to  me  this 
evening." 

"We  had  a  little  fire  here  to-day,  sir," 
she  said,  struggling  with  the  pride  and 
shame  of  poverty  ;  "  but  we  have  been  out 
of  firing  for  two  or  three  days,  and  we  owe 
the  wharfman  something  now.  The  two 
boys  picked  up  a  few  chips ;  but  the  poor 
children  find  it  hard  to  get  them,  sir.  Times 
are  very  hard  with  us,  sir ;  indeed  they  are. 
We  'd  have  got  along  better,  if  my  husband's 


70  THE  GHOST. 

money  bad  come,  and  your  rent  would  have 
been  paid — " 

"  Never  mind  the  rent ! — don't  speak  of 
that !  "  he  broke  in,  with  his  face  all  aglow. 
"  Mrs.  Miller,  I  have  n't  done  right  by  you — 
I  know  it.  Be  frank  with  me.  Are  you 
in  want  of — have  you — need  of — food  ? " 

No  need  of  answer  to  that  faintly  stam 
mered  question.  The  thin,  rigid  face  was 
covered  from  his  sight  by  the  wrorn,  wan 
hands,  and  all  the  pride  and  shame  of  pov 
erty,  and  all  the  frigid  truth  of  cold,  hunger, 
anxiety,  and  sickened  sorrow  they  had  con 
cealed,  had  given  way  at  last  in  a  rush  of 
tears.  He  could  not  speak.  With  a  smit 
ten  heart,  he  knew  it  all  now.  Ah !  Dr. 
Kenton,  you  know  these  people's  tricks? 
you  know  their  lying  blazon  of  poverty,  to 
gather  sympathy  ? 

"  Mrs.  Miller  " — she  had  ceased  weeping, 
and  as  he  spoke,  she  looked  at  him,  with 
the  tear-stains  still  on  her  agitated  face,  half 
ashamed  that  he  had  seen  her — "Mrs.  Mil 
ler,  I  am  sorry.  This  shall  be  remedied. 
Do  n't  tell  me  it  shan't !  Do  n't !  I  say  it 
shall !  Mrs.  Miller,  I'm — I'm  ashamed  of 
myself.  I  am,  indeed." 

"  I  am  very  grateful,  sir,  I  'in  sure,"  said 


THE  GHOST.  71 

she  ;  "  but  we  do  n't  like  to  take  charity 
though  we  need  help ;  but  we  can  get  along 
now,  sir — for,  I  suppose  I  must  keep  it,  as 
you  say  you  did  n't  send  it,  and  use  it  for 
the  children's  sake,  and  thank  God  for  his 
good  mercy — since  I  do  n't  know,  and  never 
shall,  where  it  came  from,  now." 

"  Mrs.  Miller,"  he  said  quickly,  "  you 
spoke  in  this  way  before ;  and  I  do  n't  know 
what  you  refer  to.  What  do  you  mean  by 
-4t?»  '  .. 

"  Oh !  I  forgot  sir :  it  puzzles  me  so.  You 
see,  sir,  I  was  sitting  here  after  I  got  home 
from  your  house,  thinking  what  I  should  do, 
when  Mrs.  Flanagan  came  up-stairs  with  a 
letter  for  me,  that  she  said  a  strange  man 
left  at  the  door  for  Mrs.  Miller ;  and  Mrs. 
Flanagan  could  n't  describe  him  well,  or  un- 
destandingly ;  and  it  had  no  direction  at  all, 
only  the  man  inquired  who  was  the  land 
lord,  and  if  Mrs.  Miller  had  a  sick  child,  and 
then  said  the  letter  was  for  me ;  and  there 
was  no  writing  inside  the  letter,  but  there 
was  fifty  dollars.  That 's  all,  sir.  It  gave 
me  a  great  shock,  sir ;  and  I  could  n't  think 
who  sent  it,  only  when  you  came  to-night, 
I  thought  it  was  you ;  but  you  said  it  was  n't, 
and  I  never  shall  know  who  it  was,  now.  It 


72  THE  GHOST: 

seems  as  if  the  hand  of  God  was  in  it,  sir, 
for  it  came  when  everything  was  darkest, 
and  I  was  in  despair." 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Miller,"  he  slowly  answered, 
"  this  is  very  mysterious.  The  man  inquir 
ed  if  I  was  the  owner  of  the  house — oh !  no 
— he  only  inquired  who  was — but  then  he 
knew  I  was  the — oh !  bother !  I  'm  getting 
nowhere.  Let 's  see.  Why,  it  must  be  some 
one  you  know,  or  that  knows  your  circum 
stances." 

"  But  there 's  no  one  knows  them  but 
yourself;  and  I  told  you,"  she  replied ;  "no 
one  else  but  the  people  in  the  house.  It 
must  have  been  some  rich  person,  for  the 
letter  was  a  gilt-edge  sheet,  and  there  was 
perfume  in  it,  sir." 

"  Strange,"  he  murmured.  "  Well,  I  give 
it  up.  All  is,  I  advise  you  to  keep  it,  and 
I  'm  very  glad  some  one  did  his  duty  by  you 
in  your  hour  of  need,  though  I  'm  sorry  it 
was  not  myself.  Here 's  Mrs.  Flanagan." 

There  was  a  good  deal  done,  and  a  great 
burden  lifted  off  an  humble  heart — nay,  two ! 
before  Dr.  Renton  thought  of  going  home. 
There  was  a  patient  gained,  likely  to  do  Dr. 
Eenton  more  good  than  any  patient  he  had 
lost.  There  was  a  kettle  singing  on  the 


THE  GHOST.  73 

stove,  and  blowing  off  a  happier  steam  than 
any  engine  ever  blew  on  that  railroad, 
whose  unmarketable  stock  had  singed  Dr. 
Renton's  fingers.  There  was  a  yellow  gleam 
nickering  from  the  blazing  fire  on  the  sober 
binding  of  a  good  old  Book  upon  a  shelf 
with  others,  a  rarer  medical  work  than  ever 
slipped  at  auction  from  Dr.  Renton's  hands, 
since  it  kept  the  sacred  lore  of  Him  who 
healed  the  sick,  and  fed  the  hungry,  and 
comforted  the  poor,  and  who  was  also  the 
Physician  of  souls. 

And  there  were  other  oifices  performed, 
of  lesser  range  than  these,  before  he  rose  to 
go.  There  were  cooling  mixtures  blended 
for  the  sick  child  ;  medicines  arranged ;  di 
rections  given;  and  all  the  items  of  her 
tendance  orderly  foreseen,  and  put  in  pigeon 
holes  of  When  and  How,  for  service. 

At  last  he  rose  to  go.  "  And  now,  Mrs. 
Miller,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  come  here  at  ten  in 
the  morning,  and  see  to  our  patient.  She  '11 
be  nicely  by  that  time.  And — (listen  to 
those  brutes  in  the  street ! — twelve  o'clock, 
too — ah !  there's  the  bell), — as  I  was  saying, 
my  offence  to  you  being  occasioned  by  your 
debt  to  me,  I  feel  my  receipt  for  your  debt 
should  commence  my  reparation  to  you; 


74  THE  GHOST. 

and  I'll  bring  it  to-morrow.  Mrs.  Miller 
you  do  n't  quite  come  at  me — what  I 
mean  is — you  owe  me,  under  a  notice  to  quit, 
three  months'  rent.  Consider  that  paid  in 
full.  I  never  will  take  a  cent  of  it  from 
you — not  a  copper.  And  I  take  back  the 
notice.  Stay  in  my  house  as  long  as  you 
like;  the  longer  the  better.  But,  up  to 
this  date,  your  rent 's  paid.  There.  I  hope 
you  '11  have  as  happy  a  Christmas  as  circum 
stances  will  allow,  and  I  mean  you  shall." 

A  flush  of  astonishment — of  indefinable 
emotion,  overspread  her  face. 

"  Dr.  Renton,  stop,  sir ! "  He  was  mov 
ing  to  the  door.  "  Please,  sir,  do  hear  me ! 
You  are  very  good — but  I  can't  allow  you 
to — Dr.  Renton,  we  are  able  to  pay  you  the 
rent,  and  we  will,  and  we  must — here — 
now.  Oh  !  sir,  my  gratefulness  will  never 
fail  to  you — but  here — here — be  fair  with 
me,  sir,  and  do  take  it !  " 

She  had  hurried  to  a  chest  of  drawers, 
and  came  back  with  the  letter  which  she 
had  rustled  apart  with  eager,  trembling 
hands,  and  now,  unfolding  the  single  bank 
note  it  had  contained,  she  thrust  it  into  his 
fingers  as  they  closed. 

"  Here,   Mrs.   Miller " — she  had  drawn 


THE  GHOST.  75 

back  with  her  arms  locked  on  her  bosom, 
and  he  stepped  forward — "no.  no.  This 
shan't  be.  Come,  come,  you  must  take  it 
back.  Good  heavens ! "  he  spoke  low,  but 
his  eyes  blazed  in  the  red  glow  which  broke 
out  on  his  face,  and  the  crisp  note  in  his  ex 
tended  hand  shook  violently  at  her — "  Soon 
er  than  take  this  money  from  you,  I  would 
perish  in  the  street !  What !  Do  you  think 
I  will  rob  you  of  the  gift  sent  you  by  some 
one  who  had  a  human  heart  for  the  dis 
tresses  I  was  aggravating?  Sooner  than — 
here,  take  it !  O  my  God !  what 's  this  ?  " 

The  red  glow  on  his  face  went  out,  with 
this  exclamation,  in  a  pallor  like  marble, 
and  he  jerked  back  the  note  to  his  starting 
eyes  ;  Globe  Bank — Boston — Fifty  Dollars. 
For  a  minute  he  gazed  at  the  motionless 
bill  in  his  hand.  Then,  with  his  hueless 
lips  compressed,  he  seized  the  blank  letter 
from  his  astonished  tenant,  and  looked  at  it, 
turning  it  over  and  over.  Grained  letter- 
paper — gilt-edged — with  a  favorite  perfume 
in  it.  Where  's  Mrs.  Flanagan  ?  Outside 
the  door,  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
with  her  apron  over  her  head,  crying.  Mrs. 
Flanagan !  Here  !  In  she  tumbled,  her 
big  feet  kicking  her  skirts  before  her,  and 
her  eyes  and  face  as  red  as  a  beet. 


76  THE  GHOST. 

"  Mrs.  Flanagan,  what  kind  of  a  looking 
man  gave  you  this  letter  at  the  door  to 
night  ? " 

"  A-w,  Docther  Einton,  daw  n't  ax  me  ! — 
Bother,  an'  all,  an'  sure  an'  I  cudn't  see  him 
wud  his  fur-r  hat,  an'  he  a-11  boondled  oop 
wud  his  co-at  oop  on  his  e-ars,  an'  his  big 
han'kershuf  smotherin'  thuh  mouth  uv  him, 
an'  sorra  a  bit  uv  him  tuh  be  looked  at, 
sehvin'  thuh  poomple  on  thuh  ind  uv  his 
naws." 

"  The  what  on  the  end  of  his  nose  ? " 

"  Thuh  poomple,  sur." 

"What  does  she  mean,  Mrs.  Miller?" 
said  the  puzzled  questioner,  turning  to  his 
tenant. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  indeed,"  was  the  re 
ply;  "she  said  that  to  me,  and  I  could  n't 
understand  her." 

"It's  thuh  poomple,  docther.  Daw  n't 
ye  knoo  ?  Thuh  big,  flehmin  poomple  oop 
there."  She  indicated  the  locality,  by  flat 
tening  the  rude  tip  of  her  own  nose  with 
her  broad  forefinger. 

"  Oh !  the  pimple !  I  have  it."  So  he 
had.  Netty,  Netty  I 

He  said  nothing,  but  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
with  his  bold,  white  brow  knitted,  and  the 
warm  tears  in  his  dark  eyes. 


THE  GHOST.  77 

"  You  know  who  sent  it,  sir,  don't  you  ? " 
asked  his  wondering  tenant,  catching  the 
meaning  of  all  this. 

"  Mrs.  Miller,  I  do.  But  I  cannot  tell 
you.  Take  it,  now,  and  use  it.  It  is  doubly 
yours.  There.  Thank  you." 

She  had  taken  it  with  an  emotion  in  her 
face  that  gave  a  quicker  motion  to  his  throb 
bing  heart.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  hat  in  hand, 
and  turned  away.  The  noise  of  a  passing 
group  of  roysterers  in  the  street  without, 
came  strangely  loud  into  the  silence  of  that 
room. 

"  Good  night,  Mrs.  Miller.  I'll  be  here  in 
the  morning.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  sir.     God  bless  you,  sir ! " 

He  turned  around  quickly.  The  warm 
tears  in  his  dark  eyes  had  flowed  on  his  face, 
which  was  pale  ;  and  his  firm  lip  quivered. 

"  I  hope  He  will,  Mrs.  Miller — I  hope  He 
will.  It  should  have  been  said  oftener." 

He  was  on  the  outer  threshold.  Mrs. 
Flanagan  had,  somehow,  got  there  before 
him,  with  a  lamp,  and  he  followed  her  down 
through  the  dancing  shadows,  with  blurred 
eyes.  On  the  lower  landing  he  stopped  to 
hear  the  jar  of  some  noisy  wrangle,  thick 
with  oaths,  from  the  bar-room.  He  listened 


78  THE  GHOST. 

for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  to  the  star 
ing  stupor  of  Mrs.  Flanagan's  rugged  Ads- 
age. 

"  Sure,  they're  at  ut,  docther,  wud  a  wull," 
she  said,  smiling. 

"  Yes.  Mrs.  Flanagan,  you  '11  stay  up 
with  Mrs.  Miller  to-night,  won  't  you  ? " 

"  Bade  an'  I  wull,  sur." 

"  That 's  right.  Do.  And  make  her  try 
and  sleep,  for  she  must  be  tired.  Keep  up 
a  fire — not  too  warm,  you  understand. 
There  '11  be  wood  and  coal  coming  to-mor 
row,  and  she  '11  pay  you  back." 

"  A-w,  docther,  daw  n't  noo !  " 

"  Well,  well.  And — look  here ;  have  you 
got  anything  to  eat  in  the  house  ?  Yes ; 
well;  take  it  up-stairs.  Wake  up  those 
two  boys,  and  give  them  something  to  eat. 
Don 't  let  Mrs.  Miller  stop  you.  Make  her 
eat  something.  Tell  her  I  said  she  must. 
And,  first  of  all,  get  your  bonnet,  and  go  to 
that  apothecary's — Flint's — for  a  bottle  of 
port  wine,  for  Mrs.  Miller.  Hold  on.  There 's 
the  order."  (He  had  a  leaf  out  of  his  pocket- 
book  in  a  minute,  and  wrote  it  down.)  "  Go 
with  this,  the  first  thing.  Ring  Flint's  bell, 
and  he  '11  wake  up.  And  here 's  something 
for  your  own  Christmas  dinner,  to-morrow." 


THE  GHOST.  79 

Out  of  the  roll  of  bills,  he  drew  one  of  the 
tens — Globe  Bank — Boston — and  gave  it  to 
Mrs.  Flanagan. 

"  A-w,  daw  n't  noo,  docther." 

"  Bother !  It's  for  yourself,  mind.  Take 
it.  There.  And  now  unlock  the  door. 
That 's  it.  Good  night,  Mrs.  Flanagan." 

"An'  meh  thuh  Hawly  Yurgin  hape 
blessn's  on  ye,  Docther  Binton,  wud  a-11 
thuh  compliments  uv  thuh  sehzin,  for  yur 
thuh—" 

He  lost  the  end  of  Mrs.  Flanagan's  part 
ing  benedictions  in  the  moonlit  street.  He 
did  not  pause  till  he  was  at  the  door  of  the 
oyster-room.  He  paused  then,  to  make 
way  for  a  tipsy  company  of  four,  who  reeled 
out — the  gaslight  from  the  barroom  on  the 
edges  of  their  sodden,  distorted  faces — giv 
ing  three  shouts  and  a  yell,  as  they  slam 
med  the  door  behind  them. 

He  pushed  after  a  party  that  was  just  en 
tering.  They  went  at  once  for  drink  to  the 
upper  end  of  the  room,  where  a  rowdy 
crew,  with  cigars  in  their  mouths,  and  liquor 
in  their  hands,  stood  before  the  bar,  in  a 
knotty  wrangle  concerning  some  one  who 
was  killed.  "Where  is  the  keeper  ?  Oh !  there 
he  is,  mixing  hot  brandy  punch  for  two. 


80  THE  GHOST. 

Here,  you,  sir,  go  up  quietly,  and  tell  Mr. 
Rollins  Dr.  Renton  wants  to  see  him.  The 
waiter  came  back  presently  to  say  Mr.  Rol 
lins  would  be  right  along.  Twenty-five 
minutes  past  twelve.  Oyster  trade  nearly 
over.  Gaudy-curtained  booths  on  the  left 
all  empty  but  two.  Oyster-openers  and 
waiters — three  of  them  in  all — nearly  done 
for  the  night,  and  two  of  them  sparring  and 
scuffling  behind  a  pile  of  oysters  on  the 
trough,  with  the  colored  print  of  the  great 
prize  fight  between  Tom  Hyer  and  Yankee 
Sullivan,  in  a  veneered  frame  above  them 
on  the  wall.  Blower  up  from  the  fire  oppo 
site  the  bar,  and  stewpans  and  griddles 
empty  and  idle  on  the  bench  beside  it, 
among  the  unwashed  bowls  and  dishes.  Oys 
ter  trade  nearly  over.  Bar  still  busy. 

Here  comes  Rollins  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
with  an  apron  on.  Thick-set,  muscular 
man — frizzled  head,  low  forehead,  sharp, 
black  eyes,  flabby  face,  with  a  false,  greasy 
smile  on  it  now,  oiling  over  a  curious,  steal 
thy  expression  of  mingled  surprise  and  in 
quiry,  as  he  sees  his  landlord  here  at  this 
unusual  hour. 

"  Come  in  here,  Mr.  Rollins ;  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 


THE  OHO  ST.  81 

"  Yes,  sir.  Jim"  (to  the  waiter),  "  go  and 
tend  bar."  They  sat  down  in  one  of  the 
booths,  and  lowered  the  curtain.  Dr.  Ren- 
ton,  at  one  side  of  the  table  within,  looking 
at  Rollins,  sitting  leaning  on  his  folded 
arms,  at  the  other  side. 

"Mr.  Rollins,  I  am  told  the  man  who 
was  stabbed  here  last  night  is  dead.  Is  that 
so?" 

"  Well,  he  is,  Dr.  Renton.  Died  this  af 
ternoon." 

"Mr.  Rollins,  this  is  a  serious  matter; 
what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

"Can't  help  it,  sir.  Who's  a-goin'  to 
touch  me  f  Called  in  a  watchman.  Whole 
mess  of  'em  had  cut.  Who  knows  'em? 
Nobody  knows  'em.  Man  that  was  stuck 
never  see  the  fellers  as  stuck  him  in  all  his 
life  till  then.  Didn't  know  which  one  of 
'em  did  it.  Didn  't  know  nothing.  Do  n't 
now,  an'  never  will,  'nless  he  meets  'em  in 
hell.  That 's  all.  Feller's  dead,  an'  who 's 
a-goin'  to  touch  me  ?  Can't  do  it.  Ca-n-'t 
do  it." 

"Mr.  Rollins,"  said  Dr.  Renton,  thor 
oughly  disgusted  with  this  man's  brutal  in 
difference,"  your  lease  expires  in  three  days." 

"  Well,  it  does.  Hope  to  make  a  renewal 
6 


82  THE  GHOST. 

with  you,  Dr.  Renton.  Trade  's  good  here. 
Should  n't  mind  more  rent  on,  if  you  insist — 
hope  you  won't — if  it 's  anything  in  reason. 
Promise  sollum,  I  shan't  have  no  more 
fightin'  in  here.  Could  n't  help  this.  Ac 
cidents  will  happen,  yo'  know." 

"Mr.  Rollins,  the  case  is  this:  if  you 
did  n't  sell  liquor  here,  you  'd  have  no  mur 
der  done  in  your  place — murder,  sir.  That 
man  was  murdered.  It 's  your  fault,  and  it 's 
mine,  too.  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  the 
place  for  your  business.  It  is  a  cursed  traf 
fic,  and  you  and  I  ought  to  have  found  it 
out  long  ago.  /  have.  I  hope  you  will. 
Now,  I  advise  you,  as  a  friend,  to  give  up 
selling  rum  for  the  future :  you  see  what  it 
comes  to — do  n't  you  ?  At  any  rate,  I  will 
not  be  responsible  for  the  outrages  that  are 
perpetrated  in  my  building  any  more — I 
will  not  have  liquor  sold  here.  I  refuse  to 
renew  your  lease.  In  three  days  you  must 
move." 

"  Dr  Renton,  you  hurt  my  feelin's.  Now, 
how  would  you — 

"  Mr.  Rollins,  I  have  spoken  to  you  as  a 
friend,  and  you  have  no  cause  for  pain. 
Tou  must  quit  these  premises  when  your 
lease  expires.  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  make  you  go 


THE  GHOST.  83 

before  that.  Make  no  appeals  to  me,  if  you 
please.  I  am  fixed.  Now,  sir,  good  night.' 

The  curtain  was  pulled  up,  and  Rollins 
rolled  over  to  his  beloved  bar,  soothing  his 
lacerated  feelings  by  swearing  like  a  pirate, 
while  Dr.  Renton  strode  to  the  door,  and 
went  into  the  street,  homeward. 

He  walked  fast  through  the  magical  moon 
light,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  sternness, 
and  tenderness,  and  weariness,  in  his  mind. 
In  this  mood,  the  sensation  of  spiritual  and 
physical  fatigue  gaining  on  him,  but  a  quiet 
moonlight  in  all  his  reveries,  he  reached  his 
house.  He  was  just  putting  his  latch-key 
in  the  door,  when  it  was  opened  by  James, 
who  stared  at  him  for  a  second,  and  then 
dropped  his  eyes,  and  put  his  hand  before 
his  nose.  Dr.  Renton  compressed  his  lips 
on  an  involuntary  smile. 

"  Ah !  James,  you  're  up  late.  It 's  near 
one." 

"  I  sat  up  for  Mrs.  Renton  and  the  young 
lady,  sir.  They  're  just  come,  and  gone  up 
stairs." 

"  All  right,  James.  Take  your  lamp  and 
come  in  here.  I  've  got  something  to  say  to 
you."  The  man  followed  him  into  the  li 
brary  at  once,  with  some  wonder  on  his 
sleepy  face. 


84  TEE  GHOST. 

"  First,  put  some  coal  on  that  fire,  and 
light  the  chandelier.  I  shall  not  go  up 
stairs  to-night."  The  man  obeyed.  "  Now. 
James,  sit  down  in  that  chair."  He  did  so, 
beginning  to  look  frightened  at  Dr.  Keiiton's 
grave  manner. 

"  James  " — a  long  pause — "  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  the  truth.  Where  did  you  go  to-night  ? 
Come,  I  have  found  you  out.  Speak." 

The  man  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and 
looked  wretched  with  the  whites  of  his  bulg 
ing  eyes,  and  the  great  pimple  on  his  nose 
awfully  distinct  in  the  livid  hue  of  his  feat 
ures.  He  was  a  rather  slavish  fellow,  and 
thought  he  was  going  to  lose  his  situation. 
Please  not  to  blame  him,  for  he,  too,  was 
one  of  the  poor. 

"  Oh !  Dr.  Renton,  excuse  me,  sir ;  I  did  n't 
mean  doing  any  harm." 

"  James,  my  daughter  gave  you  an  undi 
rected  letter  this  evening  ;  you  carried  it  to 
one  of  my  houses  in  Hanover  street.  Is 
that  true  ? " 

"  Ye-yes,  sir.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  only 
did  what  she  told  me,  sir." 

"  James,  if  my  daughter  told  you  to  set 
fire  to  this  house,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"I  wouldn't  do  it,  sir,"  he  stammered, 
after  some  hesitation. 


THE  GHOST.  85 

"  You  wouldn't  ?  James,  if  my  daughter 
ever  tells  you  to  set  fire  to  this  house,  do  it, 
sir !  Do  it.  At  once.  Do  whatever  she 
tells  you.  Promptly.  And  I  '11  back  you." 

The  man  stared  wildly  at  him,  as  he  re 
ceived  this  astonishing  command.  Dr.  Ren- 
ton  was  perfectly  grave,  and  had  spoken 
slowly  and  seriously.  The  man  was  at  his 
wits'  end. 

"  You'll  do  it  James— will  you? " 

"Ye-yes,  sir,  certainly." 

"  That  's  right.  James,  you  're  a  good 
fellow.  James,  you  Ve  got  a  family — a 
wife  and  children — hav'n't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have ;  living  in  the  country, 
sir.  In  Chelsea,  over  the  ferry.  For  cheap 
ness,  sir." 

"  For  cheapness,  eh  ?  Hard  times,  James  ? 
How  is  it?" 

"Pretty  hard,  sir.  Close,  but  toler'ble 
comfortable.  Rub  and  go,  sir." 

"Rub  and  go.  Ye-r-y  well.  Rub  and 
go.  James,  I'm  going  to  raise  your  wages 
— to-morrow.  Generally,  because  you  're  a 
good  servant.  Principally,  because  you  car 
ried  that  letter  to-night,  when  my  daughter 
asked  you.  I  shan't  forget  it.  To-morrow, 
mind.  And  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you, 


86  THE  GHOST. 

James,  at  any  time,  just  tell  me.  That  's 
all.  Now,  you'd  better  go  to  bed.  And  a 
happy  Christmas  to  you  !  " 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  sir.  Same  to  you 
and  many  of  'em.  Good-night,  sir."  And 
with  Dr.  Renton's  "good-night"  he  stole 
up  to  bed,  thoroughly  happy,  and  determined 
to  obey  Miss  Renton's  future  instructions 
to  the  letter.  The  shower  of  golden  light 
which  had  been  raining  for  the  last  two 
hours,  had  fallen,  even  on  him.  It  would 
fall  all  day  to-morrow  in  many  places,  and 
the  day  after,  and  for  long  years  to  come. 
Would  that  it  could  broaden  and  increase 
to  a  general  deluge,  and  submerge  the 
world ! 

'Now  the  whole  house  was  still,  and  its 
master  was  weary.  He  sat  there,  quietly 
musing,  feeling  the  sweet  and  tranquil 
presence  near  him.  Now  the  fire  was 
screened,  the  lights  were  out,  save  one  dim 
glimmer,  and  he  had  lain  down  on  the 
couch  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  slept 
the  dreamless  sleep  of  a  child. 

He  slept  until  the  gray  dawn  of  Christ 
mas  day  stole  into  the  room,  and  showed 
him  the  figure  of  his  friend,  a  shape  of  glo 
rious  light,  standing  by  his  side,  and  gazing 


THE  GHOST.  87 

at  him  with  large  and  tender  eyes !  He 
had  no  fear.  All  was  deep,  serene,  and 
happy  with  the  happiness  of  heaven.  Look 
ing  up  into  that  beautiful,  wan  face — so 
tranquil — so  radiant;  watching,  with  a 
child-like  awe,  the  star-fire  in  those  shadowy 
eyes ;  smiling  faintly,  with  a  great,  unuttera 
ble  love  thrilling  slowly  through  his  frame, 
in  answer  to  the  smile  of  light  that  shone 
upon  the  phantom  countenance ;  so  he 
passed  a  space  of  time  which  seemed  a  calm 
eternity,  till,  at  last,  the  communion  of  spirit 
with  spirit — of  mortal  love  with  love  im 
mortal — was  perfected,  and  the  shining 
hands  were  laid  on  his  forehead,  as  with  a 
touch  of  air.  Then  the  phantom  smiled, 
and,  as  its  shining  hands  were  withdrawn, 
the  thought  of  his  daughter  mingled  in  the 
vision.  She  was  bending  over  him !  The 
dawn — the  room,  were  the  same.  But  the 
ghost  of  Feval  had  gone  out  from  earth, 
away  to  its  own  land ! 

"  Father,  dear  father !  Your  eyes  were 
open,  and  they  did  not  look  at  me.  There 
is  a  light  on  your  face,  and  your  features 
are  changed !  What  is  it — what  have  you 
seen  ? " 

"  Hush,  darling :  here — kneel  by  me,  for 


88  THE  GHOST. 

a  little  while,  and  be  still.  I  have  seen  the 
dead." 

She  knelt  by  him,  burying  her  awe 
struck  face  in  his  bosom,  and  clung  to  him 
with  all  the  fervor  of  her  soul.  He  clasped 
her  to  his  breast,  and  for  minutes  all  was 
still. 

"  Dear  child — good  and  dear  child !  " 

The  voice  was  tremulous  and  low.  She 
lifted  her  fair,  bright  countenance,  now  con 
vulsed  with  a  secret  trouble,  and  dimmed 
with  streaming  tears,  to  his,  and  gazed  on 
him.  His  eyes  were  shining ;  but  his  pallid 
cheeks,  like  hers,  were  wet  with  tears.  How 
still  the  room  was !  How  like  a  thought  of 
solemn  tenderness,  the  pale  gray  dawn! 
The  world  was  far  away,  and  his  soul  still 
wandered  in  the  peaceful  awe  of  his  dream. 
The  world  was  coming  back  to  him — but 
oh !  how  changed ! — in  the  trouble  of  his 
daughter's  face. 

"  Darling,  what  is  it  ?  "Why  are  you 
here  ?  Why  are  you  weeping  ?  Dear  child, 
the  friend  of  my  better  days — of  the  boy 
hood  when  I  had  noble  aims,  and  life  was 
beautiful  before  me — he  has  been  here !  I 
have  seen  him.  He  has  been  with  me — oh ! 
for  a  good  I  cannot  tell ! " 


THE  GHOST.  &9 

"Father,  dear  father!" — he  had  risen, 
and  sat  upon  the  couch,  but  she  still  knelt 
before  him,  weeping,  and  clasped  his  hands 
in  hers — "  I  thought  of  you  and  of  this  let 
ter,  all  the  time.  All  last  night  till  I  slept, 
and  then  I  dreamed  you  were  tearing  it  to 
pieces,  and  trampling  on  it.  I  awoke,  and 

lay  thinking  of  you,  and  of .  And  I 

thought  I  heard  you  come  down-stairs,  and 
I  came  here  to  find  you.  But  you  were 
lying  here  so  quietly,  with  your  eyes  open, 
and  so  strange  a  light  on  your  face.  And 
I  knew — I  knew  you  were  dreaming  of  him, 
and  that  you  saw  him,  for  the  letter  lay  be 
side  you.  O  father!  forgive  me,  but  do 
hear  me !  In  the  name  of  this  day — it 's 
Christmas  day,  father — in  the  name  of  the 
tune  when  we  must  both  die — in  the  name 
of  that  time,  father,  hear  me !  That  poor 
woman  last  night — O  father  !  forgive  me, 
but  don't  tear  that  letter  in  pieces  and 
trample  it  under  foot !  You  know  what  I 
mean — you  know — you  know.  Do  n't  tear 
it,  and  tread  it  under  foot !  " 

She  clung  to  him,  sobbing  violently,  her 
face  buried  in  his  hands. 

"  Hush,  hush !  It 's  all  well— it 's  all  well. 
Here,  sit  by  me.  So.  I  have  " — his  voice 


90  THE  GHOST. 

failed  him,  and  he  paused.  But  sitting  by 
him — clinging  to  him — her  face  hidden  in 
his  bosom — she  heard  the  strong  beating  of 
his  disenchanted  heart ! 

"My  child,  I  know  your  meaning.  I 
will  not  tear  the  letter  to  pieces  and  trample 
it  under  foot.  God  forgive  me  my  life's 
slight  to  those  words.  But  I  learned  their 
value  last  night,  in  the  house  where  your 
blank  letter  had  entered  before  me." 

She  started,  and  looked  into  his  face 
steadfastly,  while  a  bright  scarlet  shot  into 
her  own. 

"I  know  all,  Netty — all.  Tour  secret 
was  well  kept,  but  it  is  yours  and  mine 
now.  It  was  well  done,  darling — well  done. 
Oh !  I  have  been  through  strange  mysteries 
of  thought  and  life  since  that  starving  wo 
man  sat  here !  Well — thank  God  !  " 

"  Father,  what  have  you  done  \  "  The 
flush  had  failed,  but  a  glad  color  still 
brightened  her  face,  while  the  tears  stood 
trembling  in  her  eyes. 

"All  that  you  wished  yesterday,"  he 
answered.  "  And  all  that  you  ever  could 
have  wished,  henceforth  I  will  do." 

"  O  father !  "—She  stopped.  The  bright 
scarlet  shot  again  into  her  face,  but  with  an 


THE  GHOST.  91 

April  shower  of  tears,  and  the  rainbow  of 
a  smile. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Netty,  and  I  will  tell'you, 
and  only  you,  what  I  have  done."  Then, 
while  she  mutely  listened,  sitting  by  his 
side,  and  the  dawn  of  Christmas  broadened 
into  Christmas-day,  he  told  her  all. 

And  when  he  had  told  all,  and  emotion 
was  stilled,  they  sat  together  in  silence  for  a 
time,  she  with  her  innocent  head  drooped 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  eyes  closed,  lost  in 
tender  and  mystic  reveries ;  and  he  musing 
with  a  contrite  heart.  Till  at  last,  the  stir 
of  daily  life  began  to  waken  in  the  quiet 
dwelling,  and  without,  from  steeples  in  the 
frosty  air,  there  was  a  sound  of  bells. 

They  rose  silently,  and  stood,  clinging  to 
each  other,  side  by  side. 

"  Love,  we  must  part,"  he  said,  gravely 
and  tenderly.  "Read  me,  before  we  go, 
the  closing  lines  of  George  Feval's  letter. 
In  the  spirit  of  this  let  me  strive  to  live. 
Let  it  be  for  me  the  lesson  of  the  day.  Let 
it  also  be  the  lesson  of  my  life." 

Her  face  was  pale  and  lit  with  exalta 
tion  as  she  took  the  letter  from  his  hand. 
There  was  a  pause — and  then  upon  the 
thrilling  and  tender  silver  of  her  voice,  the 
words  arose  like  solemn  music  : 


92  THE  GHOST. 

"  Farewell— farewell !  But,  oh!  take  my 
counsel  into  memory  on  Christmas  Day, 
and  forever.  Once  again,  the  ancient  pro 
phecy  of  peace  and  good-will  shines  on  a 
world  of  wars  and  wrongs  and  woes.  Its 
soft  ray  shines  into  the  darkness  of  a  land 
wherein  swarm  slaves,  poor  laborers,  social 
pariahs,  weeping  women,  homeless  exiles, 
hunted  fugitives,  despised  aliens,  drunkards, 
convicts,  wicked  children,  and  Magdalens 
unredeemed.  These  are  but  the  ghastliest 
figures  in  that  sad  army  of  humanity  which 
advances,  l)y  a  dreadful  road,  to  the  Golden 
Age  of  the  poets'  dream.  These  are  your 
sisters  and  your  brothers.  Love  them  all. 
Beware  of  wronging  one  of  them  by  word 
or  deed.  0  friend !  strong  in  wealth  for 
so  much  good — take  my  last  counsel.  In  the 
name  of  the  Saviour,  I  charge  you,  be  true 
and  tender  to  mankind !  Come  out  from 
Babylon  into  manhood,  and  live  and  labor 
for  the  fallen,  the  neglected,  the  suffering, 
and  the  poor.  Lover  of  arts,  customs,  laws, 
institutions,  and  forms  of  society,  love  these 
things  only  as  they  help  mankind  !  With 
stern  love,  overturn  them,  or  help  to  over 
turn  them,  when  they  become  cruel  to  a  sin 
gle — the  humblest — human  being.  In  the 


THE  GHOST.  93 

scale,  social  position,  influence,  pub 
lic  power,  the  applause  of  majorities,  heaps 
of  funded  gold,  services  rendered  to  creeds, 
codes,  sects,  pa/rties,  or  federations — they 
weigh  weight ;  but  in  God's  scale — remem^ 
tier  ! — on  the  day  of  hope,  remember  ! — your 
least  service  to  Humanity,  outweighs  them 
all!" 


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